


Anniera Falls

by Mozart_the_Meerkitten



Category: Gravity Falls, The Wingfeather Saga - Andrew Peterson
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Amnesiac Stan Pines, Angst, Blood and Injury, Dragons, Dysfunctional Family, Family Feels, Fiddleford also needs a hug, Fluff, Ford Pines is a Jerk, Found Family, Friendship, Gen, Grief, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Torture, Imprisonment, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sibling Relationship, Stan Pines Needs A Hug, The Fall of Anniera, The Shining Isle of Anniera, Trauma, War, but he gets better as the story goes on, but there is violence and people do get hurt, it's all friendship and family babey, nothing is actually super graphic or anything, there is no shipping here
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-23
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:08:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 18
Words: 32,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27110959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mozart_the_Meerkitten/pseuds/Mozart_the_Meerkitten
Summary: A fantasy AU retelling of Gravity Falls based on the plot of the Wingfeather Saga books.In Anniera the oldest sibling is a Throne Warden, tasked with protecting their king and their people. The second sibling is the King.Ford had always hated being a Throne Warden to his younger twin brother, Stanley, so one day he decided his brother didn't need looking after and abandoned his duties to study the world around him. But then Anniera falls to the Fangs of Dang and Ford believes his brother has been killed, until an old friend appears to tell him the truth; Stanley has been captured by Gnag the Nameless, leader of the horrible Fangs.No prior knowledge of The Wingfeather Saga is needed to read this fic, but if you have read it you'll enjoy the references. This is a full alternate universe take and none of the characters in the original Wingfeather Saga will appear, though the storyline will be following a loose, abbreviated version of the events in the books.
Relationships: Dipper Pines & Ford Pines & Mabel Pines & Stan Pines, Fiddleford H. McGucket & Ford Pines, Fiddleford H. McGucket & Ford Pines & Stan Pines, Ford Pines & Stan Pines
Comments: 13
Kudos: 23





	1. Prologue

Stan Pines jerked awake, the echoes of a nightmare still vivid in his mind. Anniera had been burning. Shadows had come from the flames and snatched away his people, while he was helpless to stop it.

And there, just beyond the fire, watching the scene unfold with an expression as hard as stone, was Ford.

His brother.

“Help us!” Stan had shouted. “Please! They’re your people!”

But Ford had said nothing. He had just stood there, staring at Stan.

Then, after a moment, he turned away.

That was the moment Stan had jerked awake, still feeling the heat from the flames on his skin, his throat raw from screaming.

In the distance a warning bell began to ring. Stan blinked and scrambled out of his bed to see what was the matter. It was probably nothing, probably just pirates.

But the memory of the flames and his brother’s expression haunted him, and a feeling of dread settled on his shoulders.

****

Far away in the Green Hollows, Stanford Pines jerked awake, echoes of a nightmare racing through his mind.

Anniera had been burning. The whole world had been on fire and he had been able to do nothing but watch.

And there, in the middle of it all was Stanley.

His brother.

Stan had called out to him, pleading, but Ford couldn’t hear what he said. He could only watch as the flames began to engulf his little brother.

And then he turned away.

That was the moment he had jerked awake, the heat from the flames still hot on his back, Stan’s screams ringing in his ears.

Ford took a deep breath.

It was only a nightmare.

He laid back down and tried to fall asleep, but his brother’s desperate expression haunted him, and a feeling of dread settled on his shoulders.

****

Anniera Burned.

Her king was lost, her people were scattered,

And far away her Throne Warden lay, lost in darkness, consumed with himself,

Unable to save her.


	2. A Knock on the Door

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ford gets an unexpected visitor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a note for reference in case it's not clear, Stan, Ford and Fiddleford are all the age they are during the portal incident in Gravity Falls canon.

Three months later

Ford pushed open the door of Chimney Hill and walked inside, throwing his coat onto a hanger in the corner. Without taking his boots off he clomped to the kitchen and immediately put on some tea.

A short time later he sat in his favorite armchair, a cup of tea cradled in his hands, wearing clean clothes and feeling more human than he had in a week. The Hollowsfolk were decent people, but there was truly no place like home- especially when that home was an out-of-the-way house where people were unlikely to wander and annoy him.

It had been a long few weeks. Since the end of the battles with the Fangs a month ago Ford had been helping the Hollowsfolk rebuild their towns. He didn’t really need to (the repairs his own home had needed had been minor) but it was always good to be able to have people he could call on favors for, should he ever need help with something in the future.

But now he was tired. He hadn’t been home in a week and he was exhausted from being around other people constantly. So he settled into his armchair with a good book and some tea, planning to read for a while before going to bed for some much-deserved rest.

That was his plan, until he heard a knock at the door.

Ford looked up from his book, glaring. He could hear rain pattering on the roof and the windows, and he knew it was already well into the night. Who in Aerwiar was knocking on his door?!

He waited, hoping whoever it was would go away, but after a few moments another knock sounded on the door, louder and more insistent. Ford rolled his eyes and looked back down at his book. It was probably someone from Ban Rona looking for his advice. Well they could wait until morning, thank you very much, he had earned this break.

He waited. There was silence. He nodded, confident that whoever it was had realized he wasn’t coming to the door and took a sip of his tea.

_BANG BANG BANG bangbangbangbangbang!_

Ford shot to his feet, his book tumbling out of his lap. He stomped over to the door, furious, ready to give a very stern and angry talking to to whoever was on the other side. Just as the banging started again he quietly unbarred the door and swung it suddenly open.

The figure on the other side pitched forward, head down, hand still raised to knock. They were shorter than Ford and their clothes and hair were thoroughly soaked. Whoever it was didn’t even have the sense to wear a proper coat.

“What do you mean by banging on my door in the middle of the night?!” Ford shouted without waiting for an explanation. “If you need my help come at a reasonable time like a normal person, but for now get lost!”

He started to shove the door shut again, but a hand shot out and grabbed his arm. It was trembling.  
“S-S-Stanford w-wait,” stammered a voice.

Ford blinked, frowning. It was a familiar voice. He squinted, looking closer at the figure before him, even as the other man slowly lifted his eyes to Ford’s, a desperate expression on his face.

Ford gaped. “Fiddleford?!”

The man gave him a shaky smile. “S-Stanford I have to talk to you. It-it’s about your brother.”  
Ford felt a jolt in his heart. He wrenched his arm out of Fiddleford’s grasp and pulled back. “Which brother?”  
“S-Stanley,” said Fiddleford, wrapping his arms around himself.  
Ford clenched his jaw. “Stanley is dead. And I’m surprised you aren’t as well. Weren’t you on Anniera when it burned?”  
Fiddleford winced. He was shaking furiously. “S-s-some of us s-survived.”  
“I’ve met the survivors,” said Ford. “I didn’t realize you were one of them.”

Ford felt a little bad about treating his childhood friend with such suspicion, but these were difficult times. It was hard to know who was honest and who was a traitor (because someone had betrayed Anniera, it could not have fallen otherwise) and Ford knew Stanley was dead. He had to be. There had been no word of him since Anniera’s Fall and none of the other survivors had spoken of Stan having survived.

“I-I got lost,” said Fiddleford, looking down. “W-wasn’t sure what town you were s-staying in.”  
Ford narrowed his eyes. He supposed that was reasonable, but his suspicion didn’t truly fade. “And I suppose there’s a story with what happened to Stanley, isn’t there? Alright, fine, come in,” he sighed and stepped out of the doorway.

Fiddleford looked nervously at him for a moment, as if expecting a trick, then darted inside. Ford shut and re-barred the door then turned to see Fiddleford standing in the middle of the room, water dripping off his clothes onto the floor. Ford suppressed another sigh. He was going to have to get a towel and probably some dry clothes for his old friend. Why couldn’t Fiddleford have just worn a coat like a normal person?

****

Fiddleford stood in the middle of Stanford’s house, unsure what to do with himself. He very badly wanted to collapse into one of the armchairs next to the fire and sleep but he doubted that would happen anytime soon.

At least he was finally here. As long as it had taken him he had done it. He had found Stanford and now he could finally, finally get some help with his quest. He had been so afraid he wouldn’t be able to find Ford, and he had been terrified when his knocks on the door had gone unanswered at first. He didn’t know what he would have done if nobody had answered or if something had happened to Ford.

But he was here. He was here now and it was fine. It was fine it was fine it was-

“Here,” said Stanford, suddenly. Fiddleford jumped, but Stanford merely shoved a towel at him. “Dry off with that and I have some clothes you can change into. I can’t have you ruining my floor.”  
Fiddleford took it hesitantly. “Th-thanks,” he managed. When he had dried off his hair and clothes a bit Stanford handed him a bundle of clothes and shoved him into the washroom. Fiddleford blinked, looked down at the clothes he was holding, and slowly sat down on the floor.

He had been traveling for days after getting a tip that Ford was living somewhere near Ban Rona. He hadn’t slept much and he wasn’t sure of the last time he’d eaten. No, wait, he remembered now, there had been a nice woman at an inn a few days ago who’d given him some stew, and a blanket. He’d lost the blanket somehow…

He didn’t realize he’d fallen asleep until he heard a knock on the door and his eyes flew open.  
“Fiddleford are you alright?” called Stanford.  
Fiddleford sprang up and immediately regretted it as a wave of dizziness overtook him. He braced one hand against the sink and took a deep breath. “Y-yeah, I’m okay.”  
“Are you coming out?”  
“Y-yeah, just a minute.”

Fiddleford changed into the dry clothes as quickly as he could and stumbled out. Stanford was standing outside looking concerned.

“What was that about?” Stanford asked.  
Fiddleford looked down. “Fell asleep,” he muttered, wrapping his arms around himself.  
Ford sighed. “I made tea,” he said simply, and Fiddleford heard him start to walk away. Fiddleford stumbled after him.

“Sit down,” said Ford, gesturing at one of the armchairs. Fiddleford sank gratefully into it and Stanford pushed a cup of tea into his hands. “Alright, tell me your tale,” said Ford, sitting down in the other chair.

Fiddleford clutched the teacup in his hands and tried to ignore how they were still shaking. At least the tea was warm. And the chair was comfortable and he was tired…  
“Fiddleford?” Ford’s voice jerked him back. Fiddleford glanced up at Ford’s piercing eyes and quickly looked back down.  
“S-sorry,” he said, quietly. He had to focus, to think, it had already been too long, far too long, three months too long, he hadn’t meant for it to take so much time-

“How do you know Stanley is alive?” Ford asked.  
Fiddleford took a breath. “I s-s-saw him get captured, by-by Fangs,” he managed. “I, the castle was burning, everything was burning, there were F-Fangs everywhere and I s-s-saw him fighting. He-he fought like a whirlwind, b-but there were too many Fangs, too many Fangs,” Fiddleford covered his face with his hands. “They-they took him away, I h-heard them say they were taking him to the boats. “Gnag wants him alive,” that’s what they said.”

It was too much, too much to relive. Tears streamed down his face and a sob shook him. He could still feel the heat from the flames, see the snarls of the Fangs, hear the screaming and fire cackling and burning and burning and burning and-and-

****

Ford had not expected this.

He had expected Fiddleford to be able to relate whatever happened in a calm, coherent manner. He had not expected his old friend to fall to the floor, a stammering shaking mess. Clearly something in his mind had been broken.

Still, Ford couldn’t just leave him there, so he eased his way over and knelt in front of Fiddleford.  
“Fiddleford? Fiddleford can you hear me?” he called, quietly. “It’s- ah, it’s alright, you’re- you’re alright.”  
Fiddleford looked up at him, and Ford was shocked to see the sorrow and despair in his friend’s eyes. “S-Stanford?” he whispered.  
“Ah, yes, are you-”  
Ford didn’t get any further before Fiddleford lunged forward and grabbed his shirt, sobbing into it. Ford instinctively pulled back, but after a moment he hesitantly set a hand on Fiddleford’s back. “It- it’s alright,” he tried again.

What on earth was he supposed to do now? Fiddleford was obviously too upset to let go of him, but Ford wasn’t sure how long the fit would take to pass.  
And, more than that, Fiddleford’s distress unnerved him. Of course Ford had mourned for Anniera, but he had channeled his grief and energy into work instead of pointless displays of emotion. That was, after all, what one had to do when there was a war on.

Evidently Fiddleford was not capable of coping in the same manner.

An old, old memory surfaced in his mind of when he had been a child and his brother had climbed into his bed after a nightmare (their father had warned them not to bother him or their mother with such trivial matters). Starting when they were about four, his brother had done this, and he had always asked Ford to sing the song their mother sang over them as babies.

Ford grimaced, but he didn't have any better ideas, so he took a deep breath, and in a rusty voice began to sing.

_“Oh holore lay thee low  
Oh holoel dark in the deep  
Down beneath the earth you go  
Oh holore fast to sleep  
Fast to sleep  
Fast to sleep  
Dark holore in the deep.”_

It was all he could remember of the song (his brother had known more and always prompted him) but he sang it a few times and it seemed to do the trick. Fiddleford’s grip on his shirt relaxed, and his head sank down against Ford’s chest.

“Come on, Fiddleford, let’s get you to bed,” said Ford, helping him up. Fiddleford stumbled along with him to one of the guest rooms and collapsed on the bed, curling up into a ball. Ford hesitated, then sighed and pulled a blanket up over him. Then he slipped out and shut the door. He leaned against it and pressed a hand to his forehead as the thought hit him with the force of a battering ram.

Stanley was alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise Ford does have emotions and will become a better person as the story goes on, he's just terrible right now.
> 
> Let me know what you thought! I love comments. :)


	3. A reluctant Throne Warden

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few name definitions for those unfamiliar with The Wingfeather Saga:
> 
> Castle Throg- where Gnag the Nameless, leader of the Fangs lives  
> The Killridge Mountains- the mountain range that borders the Green Hollows where Ford lives. Throg is located somewhere in them.  
> Bean brew- coffee  
> whistleharp- a instrument that is a combination of a flute and a harp

Ford didn’t sleep much that night. He stayed up for a long time thinking about what Fiddleford said and the implications of it. It all came down to one thing; if Stanley was alive then it was Ford’s duty to rescue him- or at least _try_ to rescue him.

And, of course, that was impossible. Ford didn’t even know where Castle Throg was, let alone how to break in and find his brother. Not to mention that Throg, and the entire Killridge mountain range were bound to be swarming with Fangs.

It was impossible.

Ford clenched his fists. Why couldn’t Stanley have just escaped from Anniera? Or why couldn’t he have gone out fighting like a good, noble king, the kind that would be remembered in songs for epochs to come? Why did he have to get himself captured so that Ford had to follow him and get himself killed? Why couldn’t he have just left Ford to his comfortable life in the Hollows, instead of getting in the way of Ford’s life yet again?

Ford resisted the urge to throw a book at the wall and scream. He might hate it, but as Throne Warden he had to try and rescue his brother. It was required of him. He was bound by honor, if nothing else.

He ignored the voice in his head telling him he was being selfish, that he ought to be happy his brother was alive. He didn’t _want_ to be happy about it. Stanley had given him nothing but trouble over the years and this was no different. He didn’t want to go on a suicide mission to find his brother, _he didn’t want to die_. There was so much he hadn’t done yet!

But it didn’t matter. It had never mattered. He was the Throne Warden, and, as his parents had been so fond of reminding him over the years, that meant his brother came first.

When Ford finally managed to get to sleep he had dreams of fire and screaming and the world burning around him. He woke up covered in sweat and panting.

It was late morning, and the sun streamed through the windows he had forgotten to pull the curtains over last night. He glared at it. He wanted the day to be dark and dreary, like his own mood. But glaring at the sun made no difference; it continued to shine, despite the stormcloud hanging over Ford.

He got up, grumbling, and went to make breakfast. He stopped and poked his head into Fiddleford’s room and found his friend still fast asleep. This put him in an even worse mood than before, and he made a point to make as much noise as possible in the kitchen- banging around pots and pans, slamming things down with more force than necessary- in an effort to wake the other man.

It didn’t work. It was only after Ford had started cooking up a pot of porridge that he heard soft footsteps shuffle in.

He glanced over and saw Fiddleford give him a little smile. Ford glared and went back to stirring the porridge more forcefully than he needed to. “I see you’re finally up,” he snapped. If he had been watching he would have seen Fiddleford flinch at that, but he was fully engrossed with his own concerns.

Fiddleford didn’t say anything, but he did dig around in the cupboards until he found silverware and cups then went and set the table. He slipped back into the kitchen and stood nervously in the doorway.

“Don’t know what you usually drink at breakfast, Stanford,” he said finally, his voice quiet.  
“I suppose tea, since I’m out of milk and bean brew at the moment,” said Ford, without looking up.  
Fiddleford nodded, and without a word filled the teapot and set it on the stove. He set a couple of bowls on the counter and stood awkwardly in the middle of the kitchen with his arms wrapped around himself.

Ford scooped the porridge into the bowls, took one and walked past Fiddleford into the dining room without a word. A few moments later Fiddleford followed him and set a mug of tea down by Ford’s place, then slipped out and got his own food and tea and returned.

They ate in silence. When Ford had finished he finally looked up and regarded Fiddleford, who was trying to use his spoon to scrape something else out of an already empty bowl. Ford sighed and raised his eyes to the ceiling.

“Thanks for breakfast,” said Fiddleford quietly. Ford didn’t say anything. After a moment Fiddleford continued. “Stanford, I, last night, I don’t know what you did with my clothes, but was there, there should’a been a box with them…”  
“I found it,” said Ford, glancing down. He raised an eyebrow. “What is it?”  
Fiddleford looked nervous and twirled his spoon in his hands. “Can I see it?”  
Ford sighed and rose to his feet. “It is yours, isn’t it?”

He got up and retrieved the box from where he’d left it on the mantle last night. Fiddleford had followed him, and his face lit up when he saw the box. He hugged it to his chest then sat down on one of the armchairs and opened it.   
“It’s my whistleharp,” he said, holding it up. “It’s- it’s real special now, more than it was before, because it’s all I could save- it’s all I have from,” his voice shrank down to a whisper. “From home.”

Ford sat down in the chair across from him. “There are whistleharps in the Hollows, you know.”  
Fiddleford frowned. “Yeah, but this one, this one was made in,” he swallowed and looked down at the instrument. “It’s from Anniera. It’s all I have left from Anniera.”  
Ford shook his head. “Alright, it’s special then. Now, Fiddleford, listen, I have to talk to you about this quest-”  
Fiddleford looked up, his expression eager. “When are we gonna leave?”  
Ford blinked. “ _We_?” he sputtered. “What-”  
“I’m coming with you,” said Fiddleford.  
Ford gaped at him. _Fiddleford_ wanted to come with him?! This was the man who had had a fit and collapsed on his floor sobbing last night while trying to tell a story! Who was so timid he could barely even ask for his belongings back! And he wanted to come with Ford to _Throg_?!

“No,” said Ford, shaking his head. “That’s out of the question. I can’t possibly take you with me. You’re a liability and I can’t promise I’ll be able to protect you, and-”  
“Stanford, wait, listen,” Fiddleford’s gaze was panicked. “I have to come, I-”  
“ _No_ ,” said Ford, firmly. “You’ll slow me down and I can’t have an extra variable following me around for when I get to Throg, if I even get to Throg, and-”

Fiddleford suddenly shot to his feet, whistleharp still clutched in one hand. “ _I am coming with you Stanford_ ,” he said, staring at him with the fiercest expression Ford had ever seen. “If you tell me I can’t I’ll just follow you. I. am. Coming.”

Fiddleford was breathing hard, and Ford could see his hands shaking. His old friend really _was_ unstable.  
But he was also determined. Why, Ford couldn’t fathom, Ford wasn’t even excited about the prospect of this adventure, and Stanley was _his_ brother, not Fiddleford’s. Maybe the two of them had become friends while Ford had been gone? It seemed unlikely, but it had been five years since Ford had visited Anniera, so he couldn’t rule out the possibility.

Finally, Ford sighed and pressed a hand to his forehead. “ _Fine_ , you can come. I guess I can’t stop you.”  
He glanced up and saw Fiddleford collapse into the armchair again, looking relieved and profoundly grateful. “Thank you, Stanford.”  
Ford shook his head. “Like I said, it’s not like I can stop you, apparently. Though why you _want_ to come along is beyond me. I won’t have you complaining about anything. And try not to have anymore of those fits like you did last night, would you?”

Fiddleford winced and looked down. He held the whistleharp against his chest. “I’m sorry, Stanford, I can’t help it. I saw things when the Fangs attacked. It wasn’t just them, there were monsters, and, and everything was burning and-”  
“Yes, yes, I’m sure it was awful, it hasn’t been a picnic here in the Hollows either,” said Ford, his words coming out harsher than he’d intended. Fiddleford shrank back and ran his hand over the wood of the whistleharp. Ford sighed.

They were silent for a while after that. Finally Fiddleford spoke again. “So when do we leave?”  
Ford huffed. “Well we can’t just up and go can we? We’ll need supplies, and we need to get you some proper clothes, and I have business here I need to wrap up…”  
“H-how long will all that take?”  
“Oh I don’t know. A week, maybe two.”  
“T-two- two _weeks_?!” Fiddleford stared at him with wide eyes. “Stanford we can’t wait that long!”  
“I’ll go as fast as I can,” snapped Ford. “But these things take time. I don’t even know where we’re going! I’ll need to procure a map and see if any of the Hollowsfolk know a way through the mountains, and then I’ll need to plan our route- it will take time!”  
Fiddleford squeezed his eyes shut. “Just, please make it go as fast as you can, alright? It-it’s been so long already.”

“It’s only been three months,” said Ford. “That isn’t very long.  
“It is when you’re in a dungeon,” said Fiddleford, quietly.

Ford didn’t have an answer for that.

“I’ll try and move things along as quickly as I can,” he said finally.   
“I’ll help, if it’ll make it go easier,” offered Fiddleford.  
Ford had no idea if he could be any help at all, but he nodded. “I’ll deal with the Hollowsfolk. They know me, and that’ll make things go more smoothly.”  
“I’ll do whatever y’need me to here,” Fiddleford assured him.  
Ford nodded, then stood. “Well. I guess I need to go into town then. You’ll be alright here, I assume?”  
Fiddleford nodded. “Yep. So long as things are movin’ along I’ll be fine.”

Ford raised his eyes to the ceiling again and ran a hand through his hair. “Great.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear Ford will be a better person by the end of this. xD


	4. Preparations

Fiddleford sat in one of the armchairs by the fire, very carefully sewing together several pieces of rough, coarse fabric into a shape that roughly resembled a backpack. Sewing had never been one of his greatest talents, but he could do it well enough, so long as his hands weren’t shaking too badly.

He had decided that he ought to make himself a pack, figuring that it would save Stanford the trouble of buying him one and- hopefully- speed along their preparations. It had also been the only useful thing he could think to do since Ford left him alone in the house without telling him where anything was.

It had taken him nearly an hour to find sewing needles, thread and some suitable fabric. He was honestly surprised that Ford had sewing supplies at all since he’d always been even worse than Fiddleford at it. But, then again, living alone tended to make a person more self-reliant.

After huffing about the house for a while and composing a list of things they’d need for their journey, Ford had headed off to town. He hadn’t said much before he left, and Fiddleford was sure he must have upset his old friend somehow. It probably had to do with last night, when he had been trying to explain what happened to Anniera and started babbling. He felt bad about it, especially when Ford had asked him not to do it again.

He wished that he could, but the fits had been happening ever since he had arrived in the Hollows. Sometimes they were worse. Last night was the first time he’d slept without nightmares of fire and Fangs in weeks.

Maybe things would be easier now that he wasn’t on his own.

****

The door was flung open with a BANG and Fiddleford jumped. Ford strode in, lugging a sack and a crate with him. He dropped these on the floor with another BANG and Fiddleford sprang out of his chair, wringing his hands nervously. Ford didn’t seem to notice and strode into the kitchen.

“Alright, I’ve managed to procure enough food preserves for about a month,” Ford said, and Fiddleford heard him rearranging things in the cupboards. “In addition I found a map in the Library that may be able to at least show us a path through the Killridge Mountains, though it was made before Gnag built Throg, so it won’t help us find the fortress,” Ford walked back out of the kitchen. He grabbed the sack and turned to Fiddleford. “Are you going to come help me put this away then?”

Fiddleford blinked, then nodded and dashed over to help. They worked for a while, and Stanford continued to talk about what he’d gotten for their journey. Fiddleford only half heard him, his mind was full of his own buzzing thoughts.

_‘It’s really happening, we’re really doing this, it worked, it worked, we’re coming, I can’t believe this is happening, in a few days we could be on our way…’_

Of course, things always took longer than they should. Especially when, Fiddleford noticed, Ford seemed strangely reluctant to leave. Ford went into town almost every day and brought back things that Fiddleford slowly realized he could have easily gotten on one or two trips if he’d bothered to use a horse and wagon, or asked Fiddleford for help.

Ford continued to insist that he didn’t know enough about their route yet for them to leave. Fiddleford tried to help him with it, but whenever he offered a suggestion or pointed out a flaw in Ford’s logic the other man snapped at him that he “Hadn’t asked for help, thank you very much, find something useful to do, Fiddleford.”

He was delaying, Fiddleford realized, but why he couldn’t fathom.

Fiddleford, meanwhile, finished his backpack. He packed up the extra clothes Ford had gotten for him, a couple of blankets, and attached his whistleharp box to it, so that he would be prepared whenever they did leave.

One afternoon while Ford was off somewhere, so he wandered through the house trying to find something to take his mind off worrying about everything and stumbled into Ford’s study. It was a mess; papers were strewn all over the desk and piled on the floor along with books, quills, and strange things in glass jars that Fiddleford didn’t want to contemplate. He couldn’t see any harm in glancing at some of his friend’s notes, so he did. One paper in particular caught his eye and he picked it up out of the clutter to read.

_‘In my studies of the Blackwood,’_ it read in Ford’s flowing cursive. _‘I have of course devoted much time to attempting to learn about the monsters known as ‘cloven’. What I have learned is very disturbing. It appears that these creatures are combinations of two or more animals, and some even seem to have human characteristics. For instance, I saw one creeping through the edges of the Blackwood that had the head and tail of a horned hound, but the body of a man and horrible, batlike wings. Another I took to be an old crone before realizing it had the body of a digtoad! I can only conclude that these horrors are not a natural occurrence, but that some malevolent, twisted mind is dreaming them up and making them a reality.’_

Fiddleford felt his chest tighten and his breath start to come in short gasps. He sank to the floor, still clutching the piece of paper.

He had seen monsters when Anniera burned. Monsters like the ones Ford talked about, that seemed to be more than one creature melded together, made all the more horrifying by the human eyes and expressions they had. He squeezed his eyes shut, but the images sped by in his mind. He whimpered and pulled his knees up to his chest.

Fiddleford wasn’t sure how long he stayed that way, but when his mind and breathing had calmed and all he felt was numb exhaustion an idea began to form in his mind.

****

“Stanford, I think I figured out how to get us to Throg.”

Fiddleford stood in front of Ford’s armchair, the paper he had found in his friend’s study clutched in his hand.

Ford raised an eyebrow. “Really?” he said, looking back to the book he was reading. “Do tell.”  
Fiddleford took a deep breath and forced himself to not be put off. “I found some of your notes about the cloven,” he said. “And I think I know who’s making them.”  
Ford glanced up, frowning. Fiddleford, encouraged by the attention, continued. “When Anniera burned there were monsters like that there. I think Gnag must be the one makin’ them, and the ones he doesn’t want or need he sets loose into the Blackwood. Or maybe they escape, I don’t know. But anyway, the point is, if Gnag’s making the cloven and setting them loose in the Blackwood then that means there must be an entrance to Throg in the forest, an’ it’s probably a lot less guarded than the main one is,” Fiddleford rolled the paper between his hands nervously. “So all we have to do is go into the Blackwood and find it.”

Ford stared at him. And stared. And stared. Fiddleford fidgeted uncomfortably.

“Sorry I went into your stuff, Stanford, but I don’t know, I was just curious. Say somethin’ would you?” he said after a few minutes.  
Ford shook his head. “You want to go into the _Blackwood_?” he said finally, his voice low and dangerous. “The forest full of _monsters_ and toothy cows and horned hounds and who knows what else, to find an entrance to Throg _that might not even exist_?”  
Fiddleford winced, but nodded.  
“Well then we’re as good as dead! We’d be no better off than if we walked up to Gnag’s front gate and knocked on the door to ask for Stanley back! Use your head, would you, Fiddleford? This is not the time for running off after scarytales!” Ford gave him a condescending look and turned back to his book.

Fiddleford wasn’t sure what happened to him in that moment, but a rage unlike any he had ever felt built in his heart as Stanford spoke, and when he simply dismissed the idea without even seriously considering it-

Fiddleford snapped.

“ _What is your problem?!_ ” he shouted. Ford looked up at him in surprise. “For a week and a half now you’ve been running around delaying us, saying you can’t find us a clear path and we can’t leave till we know where we’re going and when I go and find a perfectly reasonable way to get to Throg you dismiss it like I’m an idiot! Well I’m not an idiot, Stanford, I know you don’t want to rescue your brother! I don’t know how you could not want to rescue your own family, but I know that’s why you don’t want us to leave! I don’t know if you hate him or if you’re just a coward but I don’t care! We’re gonna go through the Blackwood and we’re gonna leave tomorrow! Or at least- at least I am,” Fiddleford could feel himself shaking with fury. His hands were clenched tightly at his sides and he glared all his pent up frustration and terror at Ford.

Ford stared at him, dumbfounded. It was very satisfying, Fiddleford thought, to see Ford gape at him with wide, surprised eyes. It almost made him want to get angry like this more often.

But his anger was already starting to fade, and in its wake it left only exhaustion and a hollow feeling in Fiddleford’s chest. He let his hands hang limply at his sides and willed Ford to understand, to think of someone other than himself for once.

Ford stared at him, frowning, for a long time. Finally, he sighed and pressed a hand to his forehead. “Fine. I’ll have to dig out my maps of the Blackwood. I never got far into it- it always became too dangerous, even for me, but if you’re determined to follow through with this foolishness-”  
“It ain’t foolish,” whispered Fiddleford, feeling a bit of his anger rise up again. “I’m not an idiot, Stanford, I know we’ll probably die doing this. I’d rather die tryin’ to save people than live knowing somebody I care about is trapped and hopeless in a dungeon.”  
Ford blinked. He stood abruptly and walked past Fiddleford. “We’ll leave tomorrow after breakfast, have your things ready. It’ll take us a couple of days to get to the Blackwood so we’ll have some time to think up a plan. Goodnight, Fiddleford.”

Fiddleford stood still for a moment, then suddenly he couldn’t stand anymore and slumped into his chair. He pressed his hands over his face and took a shaky breath.

Tomorrow. They would leave tomorrow. Finally, they were coming. He was coming.

They would probably die.

But they would try anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You will eventually find out why Fiddleford is so eager to go through with this plan. If you've read the Wingfeather Saga you may be able to guess, or if you've read my notes on tumblr you probably already know. Or maybe you're just clever and can figure it out. 
> 
> Also, we're getting closer to the part where Ford starts to become a better person!


	5. A Toothy Stampede

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just catch me blatantly stealing titles from the Wingfeather Saga chapters.
> 
> We get more characters in this chapter! And the action I promised. I wrote most of this while either sleep deprived or with a headache so I'm going to blame any errors or inconsistencies on that. xD

Ford and Fiddleford walked for several days through the countryside of the Green Hollows before reaching the edge of the Blackwood. The rolling hills and green fields of the Hollows gave way to dark branches reaching out as if to pull any who strayed near into their black maw. The forest was shrouded in shadow and foreboding.

Ford had been there before, but even still the forest made him shiver. It was worse, somehow, coming this time and knowing that more than monsters awaited within. For somewhere deep within the trees at the base of the mountains lay- they hoped- the entrance to Throg itself.

Still, there was nothing for it. They had come this far. Ford’s reluctance for the journey had faded a bit now that he was on it. He still wasn’t thrilled by the prospect of walking straight into almost certain death, but hiking through the countryside always cheered his spirits, and the Green Hollows was a beautiful place.

So, now, with a resigned feeling in his chest, he stepped beneath the boughs of the Blackwood. After a few moments he realized he didn’t hear any footsteps crunching through the leaves behind him.

He turned back and saw Fiddleford standing frozen on the edge of the Blackwood, terror in his eyes. Ford sighed. Fiddleford’s moods confused him deeply. One moment the man was shouting about how they had to go on no matter the danger, the next he was afraid of some sinister looking tree branches. He was tired of it, but any time he tried to confront Fiddleford about the inconsistency the man just stammered an apology and looked ashamed.

So Ford strove to keep the frustration out of his voice when he called back. “Come on, Fiddleford! We need to keep moving if we’re to get anywhere before nightfall; it gets dark fast in the Blackwood.”  
Fiddleford didn’t move and Ford couldn’t stop an exasperated sigh from escaping his lips. He walked back out of the trees and took hold of Fiddleford’s wrist to tug him in.

Fiddleford jumped and jerked his arm out of Ford’s grasp, looking at him with wild eyes. Ford had just enough time to look surprised before Fiddleford suddenly tore into the wood.

“Fiddleford! Wait!” Ford yelped, chasing after him. Fiddleford, however, did not stop, and shot through the trees like an arrow. It wasn’t long before Ford lost sight of him and was left alone in the forest.

Ford sighed and pressed a hand to his forehead.  
_‘I did say that I couldn’t guarantee his safety,’_ thought Ford. _‘And when he runs off like an idiot through one of the most dangerous parts of Aerwiar then what am I supposed to do? I can’t very well start shouting and running through the Blackwood! Then I’d be lost and eaten shortly after. I’ll just have to go on without him.’_

“And if he dies then that’s his own fault,” Ford grumbled aloud. Even as he said it he felt guilty, but he shook his head firmly. His duty was to protect the High King, no one else. It wasn’t his fault that Fiddleford wasn’t right in the head.  
But despite his justifications, the guilt remained, even as he walked through the woods and tried to focus on keeping an eye out for toothy cows, or horned hounds, or cloven.

He was about to give in and start looking for his friend when a panicked shout reached him.  
“STANFORD!”

Before Ford could think Fiddleford shot out of the undergrowth and plowed him over. They tumbled to the ground, Fiddleford grabbing on to Ford’s coat and clinging with all his might. Suddenly angry, Ford shoved him off and stood, brushing leaves and dirt off his clothes.

“You idiot!” he snapped at Fiddleford, who was still crouched on the ground, panting and shaking. “What do you mean by running off into the forest like that? Of all the foolish things to do that is by far one of the worst!”  
“S-Stanford, wait,” Fiddleford said between gasps for air.  
“I’m not finished! I can’t be expected to look after you like this! This is a rescue mission and you’re jeopardizing it with your antics!” Ford was pacing now. “If you’re so frightened of everything then why were you so eager to come in the first place?! Why don’t you just _go home_?!”

“I’m sorry, Stanford, really I am,” Fiddleford managed to get to his feet. “B-but I done messed up again, and we gotta run.”  
“What are you talking about?!” demanded Ford. Even as he said it though he suddenly realized the ground was shaking, and that a dull thudding noise was rapidly getting closer. “What did you do?” he said, eyes widening.  
“I th-threw ‘em off but your shoutin’ will have drawn ‘em back, I reckon, we gotta run, Stanford!” Fiddleford was already starting to run off again, and in exasperation, Ford grabbed his arm and yanked him back around.  
Fiddleford yelped, but Ford ignored it and shook him. “ _What is coming?!_ ”

In answer there was a deep, ominous _mooo_ from much closer than Ford was comfortable with, and a toothy cow burst out of the undergrowth.

“RUN!” shrieked Fiddleford, and finally, Ford obliged.

They shot off through the trees and the cow snorted with rage and tore after them. Now Ford knew what the pounding was, and when he turned there were dozens of toothy cows charging after them.

For those readers unfamiliar with a toothy cow it is important to note that they look like any other cow. Except that they are larger, wild-eyed, and sport two enormous tusks jutting down from their jaw. They are carnivorous and are content to eat much like a piranha.

They are also, as it happens, normally faster than the average human. These cows, however, were getting ready to hibernate for the year, and thus had been busy fattening themselves up for the winter when they were drawn into a stampede. So, what with the colder-than-normal temperatures and their fall feeding frenzy they were slower than normal, which is the only reason Ford and Fiddleford were still alive.

Now, back to the mad dash.

They were done for, Ford knew it. There wasn’t time to climb a tree, and they couldn’t run forever. Fiddleford was already wheezing and looked ready to collapse after his last run. There was no way they could fight so many either- Ford could kill a few with his sword, but their numbers would overwhelm him in minutes.

Ford felt a flush of anger. They were barely past the edge of the Blackwood and already about to die. And it was all because of Fiddleford’s foolishness. That made him think of Stanley and the reason they were on this impossible quest to begin with and Ford silently cursed them both. Why couldn’t they have just left him alone?! Now he was going to be eaten by toothy cows in a place where no one would ever even find his bones!

Just then he heard a yelp, and watched as Fiddleford- who had pulled slightly ahead of him- was yanked up into the trees. Ford didn’t have time to marvel at this however, for he suddenly felt something grab him and pull him up through the branches of a tree.

“Get off! Unhand me you beast!” he shouted, kicking and flailing wildly.  
“Well he’s sure grateful,” said a voice.  
“Eh, I’m sure it’s just the cows that have him upset,” said a second.  
“Still, you’d think he’d at least say thanks. Good thing the one I pulled up was nice or I might’ve dropped him back to the cows.”  
“Wendy!”  
“What?”

Ford could now see that their rescuers were a young man, and a girl maybe fifteen or sixteen years old. The man was dressed in greens and browns like a forester of some kind. The girl was dressed similarly, with the difference of her bright red hair hanging loose over her shoulders and a fur cap on her head. They were standing in the branches of one of the most massive trees Ford had ever seen. Clinging to one of the branches near the girl’s feet was Fiddleford, still shaking and looking terrified.

“Hey there,” said the man. Ford looked up at him. “My name’s-” the man suddenly looked at Ford and froze.  
“What?” asked Ford, suddenly uncomfortable. Instinctively, he crossed his arms, hiding his six-fingered hands.  
“Wendy,” said the man, pointing at Ford. The girl stared at him with similar surprise.

“But he looks just like-”  
“Yeah.”  
“What are you talking about?” Ford demanded.

“Soos, Wendy, it’s nice to see y’again.”  
They all turned to look at Fiddleford, who had managed to sit up and was straightening his glasses.  
“Oh! Hey! Fiddleford!” the man hurried over and crouched down beside him. “What are you doing all the way out here? I haven’t seen you since...”  
“Yeah,” Fiddleford nodded, looking down. He took a deep breath. “We’re on a mission. That’s Stanley’s older twin brother- we’re going to rescue him from Throg.”  
“Stan is alive?!” said the girl.  
Fiddleford nodded. “I saw him get captured myself.”

“Would someone mind telling me what’s going on?!” snapped Ford.  
The man turned back to him. “Right, sorry Mr. Throne Warden. My name’s Soos and this is Wendy. We live not far from here and were out in the woods when we heard the cows. We climbed up in this here tree and were in the perfect spot to snatch you two up to safety when you ran by,” he grinned.  
“How do you know Fiddleford?” Ford asked.  
“I worked with ‘em in the castle,” said Fiddleford. “Soos and I have fixed up a lot of things in that old place.”  
“And I helped sometimes,” said Wendy. She looked at Ford critically. “So you’re the Throne Warden, huh?”

The way she was looking at him made Ford uncomfortable. He stood and brushed himself off. “Yes. My name is Stanford, but you can call me Ford.”  
“I remember you now,” said Soos, nodding. “You were always a lot quieter than Stan.”  
“That’s not saying much,” said Ford.  
“Anyway,” Soos shrugged. “You can come stay the night at our house if you want. It’s the least we could do for some fellow Annierans.”  
“Not that he’s much of an Annieran,” muttered Wendy, shooting a glance at Ford. He clenched his fists and ignored her.  
“That would be mighty kind of you,” said Fiddleford.  
Soos nodded. “We’d better be heading back then. There’s not going to be anything to hunt around here until tomorrow what with that stampede on the loose.”  
Fiddleford winced. “Sorry about that.”  
“Eh, it’s alright,” said Soos. “Wendy’s gotten us chased by ‘em a few times too.”  
“Hey, that second time was _your_ fault,” said Wendy, giving him a shove.  
“How do we get out of the forest with the cows on the loose?” asked Ford.  
“Easy,” said Soos. He suddenly looked at them and frowned. “Neither of you is afraid of heights, right?” they shook their heads. “Okay, yeah, it’s easy then. Just follow me.”

Soos led them along the branches of the tree until they reached a rope bridge that spanned the gap between it and another huge tree. As they walked across Ford looked down and saw no sign of the cows but disturbed foliage and leaves.

“Did you build these?” Ford asked as they crossed through the branches of the second tree onto another rope bridge.  
“Yep!” said Soos cheerfully. “We needed some way to get through the forest safely. Or, more safely, anyway. They don’t go very deep into it, but we’ve got plenty of ladders stuck onto the trees that we can escape up further in the forest.”  
“That’s very clever,” said Ford, surprised. “How long have you been living here? I don’t remember seeing any bridges when I was here before.”  
“How long’s it been since Anniera fell?” Soos asked.  
“Three months and twenty-four days,” said Fiddleford, without hesitation.  
“Yeah, about that long,” said Soos, nodding.  
Ford blinked, opened his mouth to say something, then shut it again.

After that they continued on in silence.

As they neared the edge of the forest the trees became smaller and the rope bridges longer until they finally came to a tree with no bridge leading away from it. They clambered down a ladder set into the side of the tree and trekked out of the Blackwood.

Surprisingly close to the edge of the wood they came to a farmhouse with several trees scattered around it. It was sturdy and quaint, though significantly smaller than Chimney Hill or most of the houses in Ban Rona. Still, it boasted two stories and a barn behind it.

Soos led them inside and Ford found the house as quaint and simple inside as it was outside. Just past the entryway was a little dining room, and opposite from it there was a door that led to a kitchen. Beyond that was a sitting room and a hallway filled with doors that Ford assumed housed a washroom and bedrooms for the house’s occupants.

“Melody!” Soos called. “We’re back! And we brought company!”

A young woman peered out of the kitchen. “Hello!” she said cheerfully, walking out. She froze, however, when she was Ford, just as Soos and Wendy had earlier.  
“This is Stanley’s brother, Stanford,” said Soos. “He’s the Throne Warden,” then he looked at Ford and smiled. “This is my wife, Melody.”  
“A pleasure to meet you, ma’am,” said Ford, nodding stiffly.  
Melody smiled after a moment. “A pleasure to meet you as well, Throne Warden.”  
“And you remember Fiddleford,” said Soos.  
“Oh! Yes, I do,” Melody stepped over and took Fiddleford’s hands. “It’s good to see that one of our friends made it off the island.”  
Fiddleford gave her a sad little smile.

“So,” said Melody, looking up at Ford. “Are you here about the little ones?”  
Ford blinked rapidly. “Little ones?”

As if on cue there was a shriek, and two tiny children- a little girl and a little boy maybe three or four years old- appeared. The girl was chasing the boy with a shimmering piece of fabric and the boy dove behind Melody to hide from her.

“Get back here, Dipper!” said the little girl.  
“No!” said the little boy, clinging to Melody’s skirt.  
“Children,” said Melody. “We have guests.”

The pair immediately stopped and turned to look at the newcomers. Ford braced himself for more stunned looks and explaining but in fact the children barely noticed him. Instead-

“Fiddleford!” gasped the little girl, delighted. She ran up to the man and hugged him.  
Fiddleford laughed and knelt down to hug her back. “Hello there, Mabel! Never thought I’d see you again.”  
The little boy trotted over. “Where have you been?” he asked curiously.  
“I’ve been on a secret mission,” said Fiddleford. “I’ve been trying to find your other uncle so we could rescue Stanley.”  
“Did you find him?” asked the little boy, wide-eyed.  
“Yep. He’s right there,” Fiddleford pointed to Ford. “That’s your uncle Stanford, the Throne Warden of Anniera.”  
“We have another uncle?!” squeaked Mabel. Then, without waiting for a reply, she ran over and hugged Ford’s legs. “Hi other uncle! My name’s Mabel and that’s my brother, Dipper!”  
Ford blinked rapidly. “H-hello. Um,” he patted her head uncertainly. His mind spun. He had known, of course, that his younger brother, Sherman, had had children, but he hadn’t thought about them much for years and he had never met them.

“You’re the Throne Warden?” asked Dipper.  
“Er, yes,” Ford nodded.  
“Not that he’s been a very good one,” muttered Wendy.  
“Wendy,” said Melody, a warning in her voice.  
“I’m just _saying_ ,” said Wendy, folding her arms. “If he’d been in Anniera where he was supposed to be maybe we wouldn’t have to be out here hiding.”

“It’s not like I knew Anniera would be attacked,” said Ford, sharply.  
“That shouldn’t have mattered!” Wendy shot back. “Your job was to look after Anniera’s king and her people all the time, not just when there’s an attack!”

Ford was dimly aware that Melody had herded the children away, that he shouldn’t be yelling in front of his niece and nephew, but he didn’t care. “It’s not your place to judge me for what I should and shouldn’t have done!” he snapped.  
“Oh, oh really, it’s not?” said Wendy, walking over to him and shoving her face inches from his. “Well then listen here _Throne Warden_ , I may be one of the Hollowsfolk, but I’m more of an Annieran than you ever were. I lived in the castle for years and I was there when it burned! I watched people die when the Fangs attacked and I was there when Stan shoved those kids into our arms and told us to run for our lives. _Where were you_?”

Ford glared at her, furious. “I don’t have to take this, I don’t have to listen to you lecture me about what I should have done,” he said, his voice low and dark. “I wasn’t there, so what? Do you think me being there would have changed anything? Do you think that one person could have made a difference against a thousand Fangs?”  
“Maybe not,” said Wendy. “But you still should have been there.”

The air crackled between them, and for just a moment Ford felt as though they were about to come to blows and then-

“She’s right, Stanford.”

Ford’s head whipped around to look at Fiddleford. The man winced and wouldn’t meet his eyes, but he went on. “It was your job to protect Anniera; her king and her people. But you weren’t there when they needed you. It doesn’t matter if you could have done anything or not, you just should have been there.”  
“They’re right, Mr. Ford,” said Soos, quietly. Ford turned and glared at him too, but to no avail. “You should have gone down fighting next to Stan. And maybe you couldn’t have saved a lot of people, but maybe we could have saved more if you’d been there.”

Ford took a step back, shaking, his eyes darting between them all, his hands clenched into fists. “I don’t have to take this,” he repeated, trying to force his voice not to shake. “You don’t know the reasons behind my actions and I don’t have to justify them to you.”

He turned and stormed out of the house, resisting the urge to scream his frustration at the sky. Without really thinking he climbed onto a stack of crates and clambered up the house onto the roof. He sat down and stared up at the sky, which was growing dark. Tears welled up in his eyes and he screwed them shut, wrapping his arms around himself.

They were wrong. They were all wrong. It wasn’t his fault, he hadn’t done anything wrong. It wasn’t his fault. They were wrong.

He told himself this over and over again as the light faded from the sky and tears spilled down his cheeks, trying desperately to believe it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please be patient with me I have never written Soos, Wendy or Melody before. Also, it is extremely difficult to write Soos when I can't use modern language. xD But hey, baby Mabel and Dipper! (they're four here, btw)


	6. Two Jewels and a Throne Warden

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a lot more baby Dipper and Mabel in this chapter. Also a lot more feels. :)

Fiddleford sat alone on his bed in the house’s little guest room, a cup of tea cradled in his hands. Soos said that they had a guest room in case other Annierans ever happened to show up and needed somewhere to stay. Fiddleford knew that he meant Stanley. And he knew that if Stan had not been captured he probably would have tried to find his little niece and nephew.

Now he was trying to convince himself that he wasn’t sorry for telling Stanford off earlier. He knew that they were right, that Ford should have been in Anniera all along, but he also didn’t know Stanford’s reasons for leaving. It was possible- if highly unlikely- that Stan had asked him to go off on some sort of secret mission five years ago.

But Fiddleford remembered when Ford had left. He remembered how devastated Stan had been to lose his brother, and he knew deep down that there was no justification for Ford leaving. Ford had been discontent with being Throne Warden for years before he left. Which was strange, because when they were children Ford had always taken his responsibilities very seriously, trying hard to keep Stan out of trouble (a hopeless endeavor) and taking care of his brother as much as he could. He had been a good friend then, to Stanley and Fiddleford, and Fiddleford had wondered for a long time what had happened to change that.

He sighed, set the tea mug on the bedside table and leaned against the wall, staring at nothing. He hoped Ford wouldn’t try to leave him behind. He couldn’t stay behind, he absolutely couldn’t, but…

… But if today had proved anything it was that, if left to his own devices Fiddleford was going to get himself killed. He had nearly gotten himself and Stanford killed today and the thought haunted him.

A soft knock jolted him out of his thoughts. “Come in!” he said, a little too quickly, sitting up straight.

The door opened and two little faces peered in at him. A moment later Dipper and Mabel trotted in.  
Fiddleford relaxed. “Hi there, kids,” he helped them up onto the bed and they snuggled up on either side of him. He smiled a little, a warm feeling building in his chest, and wrapped his arms around them. “What did you two need then?”  
“Fiddleford,” said Dipper, in a very serious voice. “Is our uncle Ford a bad person?”  
Fiddleford blinked. “Well… no, I don’t think so,” he said. “Is this about the fight us grown-ups had earlier?”  
“You were all yelling,” said Mabel. Then she added, “Well, mostly Wendy and uncle Ford were yelling. You and Soos don’t yell, not like that.”  
Fiddleford chuckled and ruffled her hair. “Stanford’s not a bad person,” he said after a moment. “I think he’s just… lost.”  
“But he’s at our house,” said Dipper. “How can he be lost?”  
“Not that kind of lost. I mean he’s lost his purpose, lost, lost who he is, maybe,” Fiddleford frowned. “I think maybe he forgot that he’s a Throne Warden, that he forgot what that means and how important it is. Maybe he thinks- maybe he thinks he’s not important.”  
“But he’s our uncle!” squeaked Mabel. “Of course he’s im-portant!”  
“He’s missed out on getting to hear you tell him that though,” said Fiddleford. “He never met you before today, remember?”  
“So we should tell him that,” said Mabel, firmly.  
Fiddleford nodded. “Probably. Maybe if you kids talk to him it’ll help. Us grown-ups sure aren’t getting anywhere.”  
“What do we talk to him about?” asked Dipper.  
“Oh, I dunno. Anything,” Fiddleford shrugged. “Ask him questions then listen to what he says. That’s important too y’know.”  
“I’ll take notes,” said Dipper, taking out a little notepad.  
“You can’t write!” said Mabel.  
“Can too!” Dipper stuck his tongue out at her.  
“Alright,” Fiddleford put a hand on each of their heads. “Why don’t you go find Stanford and talk to him then? He went outside after we argued.”  
“Okay!” Mabel sprang up. “C’mon, Dipper!” she jumped off the bed and dashed into the hall.

Fiddleford grinned. Then he felt a little hand on his shoulder and looked over at Dipper.  
The little boy patted him very seriously. “You’re important too,” he announced.  
Fiddleford suddenly felt tears start to well up in his eyes. He rubbed them away and patted Dipper’s hand. “Thanks, Dipper. Now go get after your sister.”

Dipper hopped off the bed and hurried after Mabel. Fiddleford stared after them for a long time. Then he drew his knees up, pressed his face against them and quietly started to cry.

****

Ford had been sitting out on the roof for several hours. It was dark now, and he was hungry, and cold, and tired. But he wasn’t going to go back inside. They would only judge him more and he didn’t want to be around people who hated him.

“There he is!”

A little voice interrupted his brooding. He turned and saw two tiny figures trotting along the roof towards him.  
“You’re on the roof!” said Mabel, coming to a stop next to him and grinning.  
“Er, yes I am,” said Ford. “Shouldn’t you be inside?”  
“Yes!” said Dipper, slipping up beside his sister.  
“Melody said we can’t go _outside the house_ when it’s dark. But we’re _on_ the house,” insisted Mabel.  
“But we’re _outside_!” said Dipper.  
“But this is im-portant!” Mabel stamped her foot. “Besides, uncle Ford won’t let anything happen to us.”

The surety with which she said it surprised Ford. He had only just met these children and already they trusted him?

“You can go back inside if you want, Dipper, but I’m gonna stay out here with uncle Ford,” said Mabel, sitting down beside Ford and snuggling up against him.  
Dipper huffed, but he walked around to Ford’s other side and also snuggled up to him. Ford sat frozen between them, with no idea what to do, feeling the heat from their little bodies slowly warming him.

“Uncle Ford,” said Mabel. “What’s your favorite color?”  
Ford blinked. “I, I beg your pardon?”  
“Your favorite color!” Mabel stood on her knees and leaned against him, her little hands holding onto his arm and sending a jolt through his whole body.  
“Er, well, I don’t know. Maybe green?” Ford frowned.  
“Do you have any pets?” Dipper asked.  
“No,” said Ford.  
“I do!” said Mabel, cheerfully. “I have a hogpiglet named Waddles!”  
“Melody said we won’t eat him,” said Dipper, sagely.  
“We’re not eating any of them!” said Mabel, fiercely. “We’re giving them away to good homes when they’re big enough.”  
Dipper tugged Ford’s coat and mouthed. “They’ll eat them”. Ford snorted.

“Anyway,” said Mabel, sitting back down beside Ford with a huff, but not moving away from him. “Hmm, what are other important things?” she mused.  
“Can I ask you two a question?” Ford said.

The children nodded at him. Ford took a deep breath. “What are you doing here? I mean, why are you living in a farmhouse on the edge of the Blackwood? And where are your parents?”

Both children stiffened. Ford looked between them and saw that they had both put their heads down.  
“What is it?” Ford asked. “Did… did something happen to Sherm- your parents?”  
“Our mama and papa died when the Fangs came,” said Dipper, very quietly. “Uncle Stan rescued us and gave us to Soos and Melody and Wendy and told them to take care of us. Then he went back to fight the Fangs.”

Mabel started to cry quietly. Ford suddenly felt as though a bucket of ice water had been thrown over his head. Sherman, his little brother, Sherman, was dead?

Ford took a breath and tried to steady himself, but the knowledge made everything seem unreal. He had never really thought about either of his brothers dying. He had assumed they were dead when he heard Anniera fell, but he had never really thought about what that would mean. He hadn’t thought that his younger brother would leave behind two little children-

And Stanley had been the reason they were here and alive. Stanley and the three young people inside who he’d yelled at when he arrived. They were the reason he had been able to meet these two remarkable little children.

And they were right. He should have been there to protect his brothers and his brother’s children. And now because of him, because of his foolishness, his niece and nephew would grow up without a father and mother… and maybe without uncles either.

Wendy, Soos, and Fiddleford were right. Ford may not have been able to save Anniera.

But he could have saved his family.

A sob escaped him. He immediately covered his mouth with his hands but it was too late. Beside him Mabel stood up, wrapping her arms around his neck and burying her damp little face in his hair. He heard Dipper sniff, and then the little boy was doing the same thing on the other side of him.

“We love you, uncle Ford,” the little boy said quietly.  
“You’re very im-portant,” agreed Mabel, her voice muffled.

“I-” Ford could feel himself shaking, and tears ran down from his eyes no matter how much he tried to wipe them away. “I don’t-”  
“It’s okay,” Mabel patted his head gently. “We miss our papa and uncle Stan a _lot_.”  
“But we love you a lot too,” said Dipper.

Ford felt a stab of pain through his chest, like his heart had literally broken. He sobbed again and sat there, shaking, in the embrace of his niece and nephew.

A few minutes passed, then Mabel said, “Your hair smells nice.”

Ford burst out laughing. He covered his mouth with his hand, but once he started he couldn’t stop. He heard Dipper say, “Mabel!” and Mabel reply, “What? Smell it, it does!” and his laughter redoubled. A moment later he heard Dipper reply, “Okay, it does,” and it was all Ford could do to keep from falling off the roof.

Tears streamed from his eyes. He pulled off his glasses and rubbed them away, and when he could see again he saw Dipper and Mabel watching him in concern.  
“Are you okay?” Dipper asked.  
“I’m- I’m fine,” said Ford, grinning. “I just, I haven’t laughed like that in a long time.”  
“We thought you were dying!” squeaked Mabel, gripping his shirt.  
“No, no, I’m alright,” Ford patted her head. “I’m alright. Thank you Mabel, Dipper.”

The twins watched him for a few more moments, then they once again took up their positions sitting beside him. This time they didn’t say anything, and soon Ford felt their breathing deepen and when he looked down he saw they were asleep. Without a word he scooped them up and found the window they’d climbed out of onto the roof. He slipped inside and found himself in what could only be the bedroom of two small children; two little beds were set against the walls and toys and clothes littered the space between them. Ford gently laid them down together on one of the beds and before he could pick one up to take them to the other bed the twins curled around each other and pressed their foreheads together.

Ford’s breath hitched and he pressed his hand against the wall to steady himself. As a child he had often woken to find Stanley curled around him like that. With shaking hands he pulled a blanket over top of them and closed the window, then slipped out into the hall. Then he sank to the floor with his head in his hands.

****

It was late that night. Ford lay in his bed in the guest room unable to sleep. His head was buzzing with thoughts from his interactions with the twins.

He should not have been so open with them, the logical part of his mind insisted. But another part replied, _‘Why not? They may be the only family you have left. And they love you.’_

Ford sighed and stared at the ceiling. Why did things have to be so complicated?

At some point he heard Fiddleford start to toss and turn and whimper in his sleep. This was becoming normal to Ford. It would continue for a while, then Fiddleford would jerk awake and stay that way for a bit, then eventually either lay back down or get up and try to do something. The one time Ford had tried to help Fiddleford had ended up clinging to him again and sobbing inconsolably. Ford had decided after that that it was better to just let Fiddleford recover in his own way from whatever nightmares he had.

This was all well and good until Fiddleford let out a scream. Ford tensed, certain that the noise would wake the entire house. He felt a flicker of annoyance towards Fiddleford again but forced it down. It wasn’t actually like anyone could do anything about their nightmares, Ford reminded himself.

Predictably, he heard footsteps and the door creaked open. Ford narrowed his eyes until they were only slits so that if anyone looked over they would think he was asleep (he had forgotten that he was still wearing his glasses).  
He was surprised to see the shadows creeping through the room were very small and with a jolt he realized they had to belong to Dipper and Mabel. One climbed onto Fiddleford’s bed and took his hand.  
“Fiddleford, wake up!” he heard Mabel’s voice say in a loud whisper. “You’re having a nightmare.”  
Dipper climbed up with Mabel, patted Fiddleford’s head and echoed his sister, “Wake up.”

Fiddleford finally obliged. He jerked up so quickly that he nearly knocked the children off the bed. He was panting, and Ford didn’t need to see his face to know that his eyes were wide with terror as he looked frantically around the room.

“It’s okay Fiddleford,” said Mabel, patting his hand. “You’re safe.”  
Fiddleford looked down and focused on the two children. Ford couldn’t see his expression but he heard him sob and watched as he wrapped his arms around the twins and pulled them into a hug. Dipper and Mabel hugged him back, burying their faces in his shirt.

“Sorry,” Fiddleford whispered finally.  
“It’s okay. We have nightmares too,” said Mabel. “Do you wanna hear the song uncle Stan used to sing to us when we did?”  
Ford felt his heartbeat quicken.

Fiddleford must have nodded because Ford heard Mabel start to sing. After a moment Dipper joined her.

_‘Oh holore lay thee low  
Holoel dark in the Deep  
Down beneath the earth you go  
Oh holore fast to sleep’_

_Fast to sleep  
Fast to sleep  
Dark holore in the Deep_

_Rise again holore now  
Spring abundant holoel  
Render green the dying bough  
Raise the rock where Yurgen Fell_

_Raise the rock_  
_Raise the rock_  
_Spring abundant holoel.’_

Ford pressed a hand to his mouth, trying not to make any noise. Tears ran down his cheeks. He watched as the children tucked Fiddleford back into bed like Ford had done for them hours ago, then slipped out of the room, pulling the door quietly shut behind them.

Only then did Ford allow himself to take a shuddering breath and release a small sob.

The song. Stan had taught them their song.

Ford curled up on his side and shut his eyes tight. What had he done? Oh Maker, what had he done?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There was nothing short of little Dipper and Mabel that would make Ford realize he was wrong. Or make him start to be vulnerable. 
> 
> If you enjoyed, please leave a comment! It's very encouraging to find out people are enjoying my stories.


	7. The King's Friends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A shorter chapter but I was struggling with it. I think I'm happy with how it turned out though.
> 
> In which Ford goes from aloof to awkward in one chapter.

The next morning Ford had questions. He had fallen asleep at some point and woken up with sunlight already streaming through his window. Fiddleford’s bed had been empty and unmade and when Ford walked out of the room he could hear voices downstairs.

He got dressed and hurried down the stairs. The first person he encountered, who he nearly ran into in his haste, was Soos.

“Hey there Mr. Ford,” he said cheerfully. Ford blinked. He had expected that, with the exception of the children, the occupants of the house would not be talking to him.  
“Er, hello,” Ford realized he should apologize, but he had no idea how to do that. “I’m, um, I’m, look last night, I didn’t mean, I mean I should have,” Ford sighed.  
“The kids said they talked to you,” said Soos. “They like you.”  
Ford blinked. “Oh, well, yes, I- that’s good. But, look, I’m, I’m,” Ford took a deep breath. “I’msorryaboutlastnightIshouldn’thavesaidthosethings.”

Ford knew that what he said was nearly incomprehensible, and that he should probably do better than that, but Soos just shrugged, grinned and patted him on the shoulder.  
“It’s alright, Mr. Ford, we all make mistakes,” said Soos. “So you wanna come have breakfast now?”  
Ford stared at him. “You aren’t mad?”  
“Nah. There’s nothing we can do about what happened to Anniera anyway. I mean, not any more than what you and Fiddleford are already trying to do,” said Soos. “But I appreciate the apology.”  
“Oh. Well, I, thank you, I suppose,” Ford shoved his hands in his pockets. “Er, but I did have another question if you, if you don’t mind.”  
“Sure,” said Soos.

Ford took another deep breath. “Last night Fiddleford had a nightmare and screamed. That’s not unusual, but I was surprised when Dipper and Mabel came in to comfort him. I- did not expect that.”  
“Oh, yeah, they do that,” said Soos, shrugging.  
“They- they do?”  
“Yep. Ever since we came here. If anybody has a bad dream they just seem to know and show up. It’s a little weird, but when we asked them about it they said it was something Stan told them to do.”  
Ford felt a pang. “Stanley?”  
“Yeah. They said that he told them the best way to deal with your own nightmares is to help someone else with theirs. And since Stan was usually the one to help them after their nightmares they do what he used to do for them.”  
“The song.” Ford said, quietly.  
“Yeah,” Soos nodded. “They know a couple other songs, but that one’s their favorite. I don’t know how he taught it to them when they were so little, but they know it by heart now.”

Ford felt his breath hitch. He looked down, nodding.  
“Are you alright, Mr. Ford?”  
“I’m-I’m fine,” Ford squeezed his eyes shut for a moment and fought to regain control of his emotions. Finally he looked back up at Soos’ concerned expression. “You said something about breakfast, right?”

****

Breakfast was less awkward than it could have been. Soos stayed to talk to him, but Melody, Wendy, the children and Fiddleford had gone out to tend to the farm.  
Soos told him about their farm, how they had been learning to survive the Blackwood and, most importantly, about the children.

“We like to call them the Jewels,” Soos said. “It’s one of the things Stan used to call them. The Jewels of Anniera.”  
“So Stan, he was very close to them, then?” asked Ford, not meeting the other man’s eyes.  
“Yeah, he loves those kids. Stan was really upset after you left. He moped around the castle and didn’t act like himself. But when those kids were born it was like he came back to life,” said Soos.  
Ford felt his chest tighten. _Stan was really upset after you left._ Why had he never thought of that? About how Stanley would feel? Why had he only thought of himself when he ran away?

“I guess me and Wendy and Melody helped too,” Soos continued. “We really tried anyway.”  
“H-how so?” Ford asked, trying not to let his voice quiver.  
“Well, I tried to keep him busy,” said Soos. “And when he found out I was in love with Melody Stan made it his mission to get us together. Which is wild, because I was just the castle handyman. And then Wendy was the first kid he really talked to after you left. She came with her dad to help with building something and Stan just kinda lit up and had to show her around everywhere. She didn’t even know he was the king till after they left for the day. Guess that’s why he trusted us to look after Dipper and Mabel, because we had tried to look after him.”

Ford nodded, but he couldn’t take it anymore. He couldn’t stand hearing how he’d ruined his brother’s life and left others to pick up the pieces. “Well, now we need to get him back,” he said as firmly as he could. “Have you ever found any sort of cave in the Blackwood that looks like it’s leading into the mountains?”  
“Can’t say that I have,” said Soos. “But Wendy and I never go too deep into it. Is that what you’re looking for?”  
Ford nodded. “Fiddleford and I believe there may be an entrance to Throg in the Blackwood. If there is it’s likely to be less guarded and therefore easier to sneak into.”  
“That’s a good plan,” said Soos. “I’d come with you if I didn’t have the kids to look after.”  
“Yes, well, it’s a very important task, looking after those children,” said Ford, his voice tight. “They are Jewels, after all.”

****

Later Ford sat outside the house facing the Blackwood, journal in hand, thinking. If they stayed along the edge of the Blackwood closest to the mountains then they were bound to find the cave (if there was one) at some point. It would take a day or two to reach the foot of the mountains but once they did it would be a simple matter to-

“Hey, Throne Warden.”  
Ford jumped and looked over to find Wendy standing a few feet away, staring at him. He glared at her a little before remembering he didn’t really have any right to, and looked back down at his journal.  
“What do you want?” he said, fighting to keep his voice neutral.  
Wendy sighed. “I came to apologize for last night. I shouldn’t have yelled at you in front of the kids.”

Ford’s head whipped up and he stared at her. “What?”  
She shrugged. “You heard me. I’m not saying it again. It’s not that I don’t stand by what I said, I do, but I don’t want to make Dipper and Mabel hate the man who might be their only living relative either.”  
“Oh,” Ford blinked. “Er, yes, I-I’m sorry too. I- you were right about what you said,” he looked down. “I haven’t been that great of a Throne Warden.”

There was a pause, then, “Well I guess you better do something about that, then,” said Wendy.

Ford looked up, but she was already starting to walk away.  
“Thank you.”  
He said the words before he’d really thought them through. Wendy turned back to look at him, frowning. “What?” she asked.  
“I- thank you. For taking care of the children,” he said, quietly.  
She shrugged. “Yeah, well, somebody had to.”

He winced a bit, but she said it like it was a fact, not an accusation. And, Ford supposed, he probably deserved that.

“See you at dinner, Throne Warden,” said Wendy, giving him a little wave before she strode around the side of the house. Hesitantly, Ford waved back, then lowered his hand and stared after her.

Stanley’s friends were very strange.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I live in constant fear that when I have Soos say, "Mr. Ford" I'm going to type it as, "Mr. Frodo" xD
> 
> If you enjoyed, please leave a comment!


	8. Farewell to the Farmhouse

It was very early the next morning. Ford had packed his things and slipped down the stairs to the front door. He was hoping that he would be able to sneak out without waking the family or Fiddleford. He had decided that his friend would be better off here, somewhere safe and without danger. And, of course, if Fiddleford wasn’t around, Ford didn’t have to worry about him doing something foolish again like waking a herd of toothy cows. Fiddleford was a liability and Ford didn’t need that while he was trying to find the entrance to the most dangerous place in Aerwiar.

He wanted to avoid the family because he couldn’t stand a lengthy goodbye. Mostly he didn’t want to say goodbye to the children, because if it didn’t break their hearts it would probably break his, and he did not need to start crying in front of people who were still basically strangers (even if they were taking care of his niece and nephew).

So Ford was sneaking out. He was just about to open the door when a voice stopped him.

“Where are you off to, Mr. Ford?”

Ford jumped and whipped around to glare at Soos. “Keep your voice down!” he hissed. “I’m leaving. I’m setting out for the Blackwood.”  
“You forgot Fiddleford.”  
“I didn’t forget him,” said Ford. “I’m leaving him here. If you don’t want him to stay then send him back to the Hollows, he can stay in Chimney Hill until I return- _if_ I return- but I can’t take him with me.”  
Soos looked at him sadly and shook his head. “You don’t know why he’s doing this, do you?”  
Ford frowned. “No. Does it matter?”  
Soos stared at him a moment, his expression surprisingly unreadable, then shrugged. “I guess to you it wouldn’t. Ask him sometime. Anyway, I think you’ll need him to help you find Stan.”  
Ford raised an eyebrow. “I highly doubt that. I doubt there’s any way Fiddleford could make himself useful on this journey, and especially not in Throg. He’s afraid of everything and he doesn’t even have a weapon!”  
Soos walked up and patted him on the shoulder. “You’re wrong,” he said simply. Then he turned and yelled up the stairs, “Kids! Are you ready?”

Ford gaped at him. “What- no, don’t!”  
Soos turned back to him and grinned. “Sorry Mr. Ford, but the twins would never forgive me if I let you leave without saying goodbye to them.”  
Ford glared daggers at him. “You people are insufferable.”  
Soos laughed. “In this case I’ll take that as a compliment.”

****

Fiddleford was awoken by something crashing into him.

He gave a muffled yelp and flailed wildly, trying to dislodge whatever it was and instead getting tangled in blankets. He finally stopped, panting, when he heard giggling.

Mabel was laying on the bed, laughing, while Dipper scowled at her from where he stood on the floor.  
“Mabel that was mean,” said the little boy.  
“But it was funny!” Mabel giggled.

Fiddleford took a deep breath and put on his glasses, raising an eyebrow at them. “And to what do I owe the pleasure of bein’ woken up by you two?”  
“Oh right!” said Mabel, sitting up. “Uncle Ford’s leaving!”

Fiddleford felt a jolt go through his heart. “He’s what?!” he sprang out of bed. Mabel gave a squeak as she was buried in blankets and Dipper hopped out of the way. Fiddleford dashed around his bed, grabbing clothes and his whistleharp and shoving them frantically into his pack.

“Soos told us to wake you up,” Dipper said.  
“Thanks,” Fiddleford said, breathlessly. He darted back and forth across the room. “I’m forgettin’ something, I know I am.”  
There was a knock and Wendy poked her head through the doorway. “Hey, do you need any help?”  
Fiddleford pressed a hand to his forehead. “Is Stanford still here?”  
Wendy nodded and grinned a little. “Yeah, Soos is downstairs stalling him.”  
Melody peeked in behind her. “Everything alright in here?”  
“I’m forgettin’ something,” Fiddleford repeated, running a hand anxiously through his hair. “I just can’t remember what.”  
Melody tilted her head. “Probably your shoes. Those are downstairs.”  
Fiddleford blinked and looked down at his bare feet. “Oh. Right. Thanks.”

“Here’s your socks!” said Mabel cheerfully, holding up one. Dipper held the other.  
Fiddleford shook his head and laughed nervously. “Thanks.”

Not long after, Soos’s voice called up the stairs. The children shrieked and ran into the hall. After a moment, Fiddleford followed them and found Melody and Wendy leaning over the railing watching as Dipper and Mabel cannoned into Ford and hugged him.

“Thanks for sendin’ the kids to wake me up,” said Fiddleford, quietly.  
Melody walked up and took his hands. “Of course. Be careful. And look after Stanford.”  
“Yeah, he’s as arrogant as they come,” agreed Wendy, folding her arms. “He thinks he can do this all by himself.”  
Fiddleford looked down and shrugged. “Well, it’d probably be easier if he didn’t have to drag me along.”  
“Nah, he’s just stupid,” said Wendy. “I feel bad for you having to be stuck with him all the time though.”  
“And you might find you’re more important than you realize,” said Melody, smiling at him. “Now go. And don’t forget to be brave.”  
Fiddleford shook his head and chuckled. “I’ll try. And thank you both for letting us stay here, and,” he nodded at Wendy. “Thanks for rescuin’ us from the cows.”  
Wendy grinned. “Hey, no problem. Now go, get out there, and don’t let that sourpuss Ford leave you behind anywhere.”

Fiddleford hurried down the stairs. Dipper and Mabel were practically hanging off Ford, which made him smile a little, but when he looked up into Stanford’s eyes…

All he saw there was frustration and resignation. It made him feel like slinking back up the stairs and hiding under his bed.  
But then he took a deep breath and reminded himself what of he was going to do and why he absolutely had to do it. And he lifted his head and stared back at Stanford until the other man looked away.

Soos turned and patted him on the shoulder. “Alright you two, guess you’d better be off. Say goodbye, kids.”  
To Fiddleford’s surprise the twins let go of Stanford and ran over to hug him.  
“Bye, Fiddleford!” said Mabel.  
“Come back with lots of good songs and stories,” said Dipper, tugging on his shirt.  
Fiddleford knelt down and hugged them both. “I’ll do my best. You two be good here, don’t go causin’ any trouble.”  
“No promises!” Mabel shrieked, letting go of him and darting back over to hug Ford. Dipper reached up and patted Fiddleford on the head, then followed his sister.

“Bye uncle Ford!” said Mabel, hugging him tightly. “Come back soon, and bring uncle Stan!”  
“Don’t let the monsters get you,” said Dipper, looking up at Ford very seriously.  
“I-I’ll do my best,” said Ford, ruffling their hair. “Er, take care of each other.”  
“You two take care of each other too!” said Mabel, taking Ford’s hand and yanking it towards Fiddleford. “And take care of uncle Stan when you find him!”  
Ford glanced away and nodded. “I will.”

Abruptly Ford knelt down and hugged the twins. They happily hugged him back. When Ford stood back up just as abruptly Fiddleford could have sworn that there were tears in his eyes as he turned away.

“Alright. We’re going,” said Ford, firmly. “Fiddleford, if you’re coming keep up, and don’t wander off again.”  
Fiddleford winced and nodded. “I’ll do my best.”  
Ford didn’t reply, he simply pushed the door open and strode outside.

Fiddleford took a deep breath and followed him, but he paused in the doorway and looked over at Soos. “Thanks for letting us stay.”  
“No problem,” said Soos. “Be careful out there. And if you find Stan… bring him back here, alright?”  
Fiddleford nodded and looked down at the children. “I can’t imagine there’s anyplace else even Ford would dare to take him after this.”

“Fiddleford, I’m not waiting for you!” Stanford called as he strode away from the house. Fiddleford took a deep breath and hurried out the door, turning to wave at Soos and the children, and Melody and Wendy.

The children waved and yelled their goodbyes across the hills until Fiddleford couldn’t see them or the farm when he looked back anymore. His heart ached, and he forced himself to turn and dash after Ford.

Ahead of them lay the long, dark ominous wall of the Blackwood, crouching like a beast at the edge of the hills, waiting to pounce and gobble them up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just in case you were worried Ford was becoming a better person too quickly. He'll keep slowly getting better, never fear.  
> And soon you'll get to find out what's up with Fiddleford.


	9. Down in the Deeps

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a chapter in case you were wondering how Stan's doing. Spoiler alert: He is not having a fun time.

Stanley Pines sat in a cage. It was hung high above the ground, but not so high that he couldn’t see the line of people moving slowly below him. Hundreds of men, women, and children all standing in single file in a line that snaked through the massive cave under the mountains. One by one they each stepped up to a woman waiting before a box of stone and metal and one by one they stepped inside and sang.

And when they came out they were no longer human.

They were Fangs. Humans melded with animals, usually lizards or, Stan had noticed recently, wolves. They could walk and talk like men but that was where the similarities ended. They were covered in fur or scales and had tails, claws, and, of course, fangs. They would kill without a second thought.

And they could not remember the people they used to be.

That was where Gnag had gotten his army. From humans he had captured and enslaved for _years_. People from Skree, from Anniera, from the Hollows. He took them and locked them in dark, damp holes in the ground, made them lose hope. And then he gave them a chance to be powerful and strong, so that no one could ever hurt them again. And who wouldn’t choose that? Who wouldn’t give in after months of torment and pain and terror?

Every once and a while the woman, the Stone Keeper, looked up at him, her face shrouded in the shadows of her hood. But he knew she was watching him, waiting for him to break.

It wasn’t always like this. Sometimes they locked him in a cell with his hands chained above his head and the Stone Keeper spoke to him in a sugary-sweet voice, taunting him with all sorts of promises if he just _gave in_. Sometimes they beat him or refused to feed him for weeks on end. Sometimes they simply left him hanging alone in the dark with his thoughts.

But this was more effective than any of those things. When the Stone Keeper came to speak and torment him in his cell he would throw taunts and insults back at her, mocking her attempts to break him. High up in his cage, however, he could do nothing but watch helplessly as his people were slowly destroyed.

“Just sing the song,” the Stone Keeper would whisper each time they brought him down. “Sing the song and we will spare them- if they want us to.”

That song. That blasted song. The Song of the Ancient Stones that turned men into monsters. The song that was sung every minute of every day down in this hole. Even in the pitch black corners of his cell he couldn’t escape it. It wormed his way into his dreams and filled his mind during every waking moment.

It was driving him mad.

He used to scream and roar at the Stone Keeper, tell her he would never give in, that he would never stop fighting to be free. He had hoped that his defiance would help. Help his people, give them something to believe in, maybe convince some of them to fight back. He had thought, once, that maybe he could incite a rebellion, right here, in the Deeps of Throg.

Those hopes had long since died. In their place was hollowness, and a cold, numb realization.

Stanley was breaking. There was no hope down here, no reason to keep on living. Whether he sang the song or not he knew his people wouldn’t be freed. Most of them were Fangs or cloven already. He could only assume that by now most of the poor souls in the endless line of people came from Skree and the Hollows; for all Stan knew Gnag had conquered the whole world in the months he’d been down here.

And whether he gave in to the Stone Keeper or not he knew he would never see his family again. He hoped they were alright, that they had all made it off the island. He hoped that Ford was alright, wherever he was, and that the Hollows were safe.

And most of all he hoped, he pleaded and begged with the Maker to keep his little niece and nephew safe, along with the people he had entrusted them to.

The hardest part was watching children climb up into the box and stumble out again as Fangs. Stanley had always loved the children of Anniera, more than anything in all of Aerwiar. And it was all too easy to imagine Mabel and Dipper in their place, broken and terrified and just trying to escape it all. It broke his heart to see children, of all people, giving up. To see them hopeless.

But he was their king, and even he didn’t have any hope anymore.

He had failed. He had failed them all. He was their king and they had trusted him but in the end he had failed them. Anniera was lost and so were her people.

And so was her King.

Stan pulled his knees to his chest and pressed his head against them, shutting his eyes tight and trying to think of anything besides that awful song. After a moment he lifted his head and started to sing in a broken voice.

_‘Rise again holore now  
Spring abundant holoel  
Render green the dying bough  
Raise the rock where Yurgen fell_

_Raise the rock,  
Raise the rock,  
Spring abundant holoel.’_

_‘Who was Yurgen, anyway?’_ he remembered asking Ford when they were children.  
_‘Yurgen was a dragon,’_ Ford had told him. _‘He was the great king of the dragons. But a long time ago his son was hurt, and so he went and took the other dragons and burrowed under the mountains to find something to heal him- the holore and holoel. But he didn’t find it, and the mountains sank into the Dark Sea of Darkness instead and his son died.’_  
_‘Ohhh, so that’s how the Sunken Mountains sunk. I bet that would be a great place to look for buried treasure!’_  
_‘Ha, yeah. But Stanley, how are you going to go look for buried treasure if you’re busy being king?’  
‘I’ll make a national holiday! National treasure hunting day- no, week, no month! Then we’ll all go look for buried treasure! And I’ll find the most.’  
‘Don’t you mean _we _? I have to come with you, remember?’  
‘’Course I do, Sixer. And we’ll find the best treasure in all of Aerwiar! But I’ll still find more than you.’  
‘I’ll be with you the whole time! I can’t leave you, I’m the Throne Warden!’  
‘Okay, okay, fine. _We’ll _find the most treasure in all of Aerwiar.’_

Stan tried to brush the tears out of his eyes, but it was no use. A sob shook him and he buried his head in his hands. What he wouldn’t give to have Ford here. It wasn’t that he wanted his brother to share in his torment, he was just so alone, and Ford had such a quiet, unbreakable strength-

Ford wouldn’t give up. But Ford was a world away, and Stan knew his brother wasn’t coming for him. The days where Ford insisted they do everything together were long gone and now, and now…

Now Stan was alone.

And he was breaking.

Anniera was lost.

And so was her King.


	10. Fiddleford's Tale and Ford's Guilt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Ford realizes he is a scumbag.

“What’cha reading, Stanford?”

Ford looked up, eyebrow raised and Fiddleford shrank back a bit. But Ford simply sighed and shrugged. “It’s one of the First Books, as near as I can tell,” he said.  
“The First Books?” asked Fiddleford. “I thought those were lost.”  
Ford looked away. “Stanley found it when we were children,” he said, quietly. “It’s not… it’s not written in modern language, so it took me a long time to decipher it. It talks about Anyara, which is what Anniera was originally called. It has histories about my family, secrets about Castle Rysen, it even talks about the First Well,” Ford rubbed his thumb over the pages. “And it has Yurgen’s tune in it, the original song, not just the nursery rhyme version.”

Fiddleford listened curiously. This was the most Stanford had talked to him since they’d started their adventure. “What’s Yurgen’s tune?” he asked, hoping to keep Ford going.  
Ford took a breath. “Yurgen’s tune is the name of the song Mabel and Dipper sang the night we were in the farmhouse, when you had a nightmare.”  
Fiddleford felt his face heat up and he looked down quickly, but Ford continued.  
“The version the children know, the version Stanley taught them, isn’t the full song. The First Book has the song, and the notes to play it- on a whistleharp, I assume.”  
“Well, I’ve got a whistleharp,” said Fiddleford, hesitantly. “Maybe I could try and play it sometime.”  
“Maybe while we’re not in the middle of the Blackwood,” said Ford. “Or on this quest at all. Honestly, Fiddleford, I can’t imagine why you brought a whistleharp along, of all things. We’re going on a stealth mission into Throg, you would have been better off leaving it in the Hollows and taking a weapon.”

Fiddleford looked down and squeezed his hands together. “It reminds me of home,” he said softly. “It’s all I got left.”

There was a long silence. Finally, Ford sighed and spoke again.  
“If you want to try and learn the tune then here,” he walked over and held out the book.  
Fiddleford looked up at him. “Are, are y’sure, Stanford?”  
“Yes, take it. Just don’t lose it, alright? And here, you’ll never be able to read it without my translation,” Ford handed him a leatherbound notebook. “Maker knows I don’t really need to read it anymore, I almost have the thing memorized.”  
Fiddleford raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, because havin’ a book you nearly have memorized is more practical than bringing along a whistleharp. I see.”  
Ford huffed and stalked back to his seat. After a moment he mumbled something.  
“What’d y’say, Ford?”  
“I said I brought it because it reminds me of Stanley!” snapped Ford. He stood abruptly. “I’m going to get more firewood.”

Fiddleford watched him go, then looked down at the old book. He ran his fingers over it and smiled.

“I’m from Anniera too,” he said quietly. “I’m glad Stanford brought you along. It’s nice to have something else from home,” he flipped through the pages, then glanced at Ford’s notebook. “Guess I got some readin’ to do.”

****

“We’re going in circles!”

Ford threw down his map and resisted the urge to stomp it into the dirt. The blasted thing was useless. It had been three days and they still hadn’t reached the mountains. Either the Blackwood was much larger than he had realized or they were lost.

“Maybe one of us should climb a tree and look around,” said Fiddleford.  
Ford took a deep breath and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Fine. Would you like to do the honors?”

Without a word Fiddleford set down his pack and scrambled up into the branches of a truly massive tree. Ford waited, tapping his foot, head tilted up to watch. There were still enough leaves on the tree that Ford quickly lost sight of Fiddleford though, and so he turned his frustrated expression back to the ground.

After several minutes Ford heard a _crack_ , a yelp and a _thump_ in quick succession. When he looked up he saw Fiddleford lying on the ground, a dead branch under him. Ford gave a sigh and walked over.   
“Are you alright?” he asked.  
Fiddleford blinked at him and coughed, then nodded. He sat up, wincing, and kept his head down.  
“I suppose you did at least see something up there?” Ford prompted after a moment.  
“We need to angle ourselves more that way,” Fiddleford pointed. “The mountains ain’t very far away, we just started headin’ back towards the front of the wood.”  
“Well that’s something at least,” said Ford, standing up. “Come on, we can still make some progress in the right direction before it gets dark.”

Ford started trekking in the direction Fiddleford had pointed. He was not terribly surprised when he heard Fiddleford call, “Stanford, wait!”  
Ford rolled his eyes. “I told you I wouldn’t wait for you, Fiddleford!” he called back, without slowing his pace. He wasn’t going to make his brother wait longer just because Fiddleford couldn’t keep up with him.

Ford heard footsteps hurrying over the leaves behind him, then a muffled yelp. He turned and saw Fiddleford on his hands and knees on the ground, probably because he had tripped. Ford started to turn around and continue walking, but then he heard a soft sob and he stopped. Ford grit his teeth and turned back around, arms folded.

“Fiddleford why do you insist on following me?” he demanded. “You’re obviously miserable, why don’t you just go and leave me to my quest? It would be better for both of us.”  
Fiddleford looked up at him and brushed the tears out of his eyes. “D’you really wanna know, Stanford?”  
“If you’re going to insist on following me around then yes!” Stanford snapped, throwing his arms out. “I think I deserve an explanation!”

Fiddleford slowly got to his feet. “I’ll tell you when we make camp tonight. You’re just gonna be mad if I slow us down anymore an’ it’s, it’s not-” he wrapped his arms around himself and looked down. “It’s gonna take me a while to tell.”  
“Fine,” said Ford. “Tonight.”

Then he turned back around and kept walking.

****

That night, after a tense, quiet supper, Ford leaned back and looked at Fiddleford over the fire.

“Alright,” said Ford. “Why do you keep following me? _Insist_ on following me?”  
Fiddleford wouldn’t look at him, he picked up his whistleharp case and wrapped his arms around it. He stayed silent for a couple minutes, then Ford heard him take a deep breath and begin.

“The night Anniera burned, after I saw Stanley get captured, I ran down to the village outside the castle. I thought, I thought maybe I could get my family out before the Fangs burned it all. I, I was,” Fiddleford squeezed his eyes shut.

“I was too late,” he whispered, finally. “They, they had killed my wife. I th-think she tried to stop ‘em from gettin’ in the house. Everything, everything was on fire. The h-house was burning and I-I didn’t know what to do. I sat there screamin’ and cryin’ over her body until I r-remembered Tate, my son, he-he’s just little, I d-don’t think you r-remember him, he was only a year old when you l-left.”

Fiddleford was clutching the whistleharp case very tightly now, like it was the only thing keeping him from falling apart. Ford wanted to say something, but his throat had gone dry and he didn’t have any words.

“I r-ran through the house, screamin’ for him,” said Fiddleford, visibly shaking now. “But he wasn’t there. I went back out-outside an’ I saw the F-Fangs. They, they were herdin’ people up. Es-especially the children. I-I dunno why, but they wouldn’t k-kill the children. They rounded up a bunch of people, a-adults an’ children, but I h-heard ‘em yellin’ about if-if they had all the children. And I-I knew, I knew they had to have Tate.”

Fiddleford’s breathing was uneven, and Ford could tell from his voice that he was crying.

“I-I knew I’d never-never be able to f-fight off the F-Fangs,” Fiddleford continued, every word a struggle. “S-so I r-r-ran. I got in a r-rowboat an’ tried to get t-to the Hollows. I should’a died. S-Stanford I should’a died. I was hurt r-real bad an’ d-didn’t even k-know. I g-got burned, I can’t remember h-how. But I-I,” he shook his head and laid the case in his lap, then rolled up his sleeves. “I d-don’t know how my h-hands didn’t burn. I-I guess the M-Maker still wants me t’use ‘em for s-s-somethin’,” he tried to laugh, but it turned into a sob.

Ford found himself standing, though every muscle in his body screamed for him to _stay back, stay away_. He walked over and knelt down.

Fiddleford’s arms were covered in burn scars. The skin was raised and discolored and twisted up Fiddleford’s arms. Ford felt his throat closing up. How had he never noticed that before?

_‘You didn’t want to,’_ said an accusatory voice in his head. _‘You don’t want to care about anyone but yourself.’_

“I c-c-came to find you, after, after the H-Hollowsfolk patched me up,” said Fiddleford, lowering his arms. “I knew, I knew you’d go after S-St-Stanley, so I-I decided I’d come with you and, and,” he covered his face with his hands, sobbing. “I have to try and find him, Stanford! He’s my son, I-I-I know it’s probably hopeless but I have to, I have to,” Fiddleford let out a broken, keening sound and Ford leaned back, with no idea what to do.

“I-I’m sorry, Fiddleford,” said Ford, finally. “I didn’t-” _didn’t what? You didn’t know? Of course you didn’t! You never asked, you just assumed the reason was something foolish and superficial! You just assumed that Fiddleford was following you for no good reason, despite his obvious_ terror _. What kind of friend does that make you?_

Ford looked down. “I’m sorry,” he said again, because it was all he could think to say. He hesitantly reached out and laid a hand on Fiddleford’s shoulder.

Fiddleford didn’t pull away, or try and grab hold of him like he had before. Instead, pulled his knees up and pressed his head against them, sobbing and still clinging to his whistleharp case.

They stayed like that until Fiddleford’s breathing evened out and he leaned over and fell against Ford’s side, asleep. Ford carefully laid him down on the ground and covered him up with a blanket. He sat there for a long time, his eyes fixed on the other man, thoughts swirling through his head.

‘ _He’s a better man than you’ll ever be, to come despite his fear. And to come even when you tried so hard to get rid of him.’_ Ford thought.

Ford brushed tears out of his eyes. He should have known better. He _had_ known better. He had always known, deep down, that Fiddleford would only have followed him for a good reason, but…

…But it had been easier to be angry. Because he _was_ angry, angry that all of this had happened, that he was in this situation.

But that was not Fiddleford’s fault. Just like it wasn’t Stanley’s fault.

Ford thought of Dipper and Mabel, about their parents, about his little brother who was dead and about his twin who was captured and trapped in a dungeon somewhere. He thought about Fiddleford’s wife, who had been a fiery, kind woman, and his son, who Ford barely remembered meeting. If he had been there, could he have saved any of them? Could he have stopped the Fangs from taking the children?

He didn’t know, but the voice in his head whispered, _Maybe_ , and it haunted him.

Finally, Ford laid down and stared up between the tree branches at the starry sky, wondering how he had managed to do so many things wrong in his life. When he closed his eyes he saw the faces of all the people he had known on Anniera. Were they dead? Captured? Why did Gnag need so many captives anyway? Why had he attacked Anniera?

Ford suddenly sat bolt upright, cold dread running through his veins.

Had Gnag known he wasn’t there? Was that why he had chosen now to attack Anniera? Because he knew the Throne Warden had abandoned his post?

Ford shuddered and covered his face with his hands.

_‘What have I done? Oh, Maker, what have I done?’_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that's why Fiddleford is Like That. Ford is now regretting all of his life choices. 
> 
> There are more feels to come. :)


	11. The Angry Ones Attack

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah yes, another chapter title I shamelessly stole from the Wingfeather Saga books. xD

After that night Ford made a conscious effort to change his thoughts and reactions to Fiddleford. He still couldn’t think of anything to say, but he tried desperately to show he was sorry through his actions.

He walked slower and stopped whenever he heard Fiddleford start to struggle. He found that the slower pace actually did them good; it was easier to stay on course when he took the time to find a way around any obstacles they came across, instead of trying to force his way through and having to try and find his way back when he was thwarted. He forced himself to be calmer and more patient and somehow they made better time. They reached the foot of the mountains that very afternoon.

It was getting on towards evening when they encountered a small, but steep ravine that forced them deeper into the forest again. Ford tried not to be frustrated about the development- after all they had made good time the rest of the day.

As they were walking along the ravine, Fiddleford spoke for the first time that day.  
“Stanford,” he said, quietly. “I think somethin’s watchin’ us.”  
Ford stopped, frowning. He looked around at the trees and bushes around them but saw nothing. “From where?”  
“I-I don’t know,” said Fiddleford. “I just, it just feels like it.”  
Ford sighed. “There are lots of creatures in the Blackwood, Fiddleford,” he said in the gentlest voice he could muster. “I’m sure it’s nothing. Maybe there’s a snickbuzzard watching you.”  
“There’s no snickbuzzards in the Blackwood,” said Fiddleford, but he sounded nervous.  
“Yes, yes, of course, I was only joking,” said Ford, quickly. “I’m sure everything’s fine, Fiddleford, don’t worry about it.”

Fiddleford nodded, but Ford noticed that he walked much closer than he had earlier, and that he jumped with every little noise the forest made.

As it got darker, Ford started looking for a place for them to set up camp. He found a nice little hollow and had just started looking for firewood when he heard a shriek.

Ford dashed back to the camp and found Fiddleford standing with his back against a tree, brandishing his whistleharp case at a creature that looked like a cross between a horned hound and a digtoad. It had the face and horn of a hound, but its body was lumpy and misshapen and its knobby legs bunched beneath it like it was about to spring at any moment.

Ford darted inbetween his friend and the creature and drew his sword. “Stay back!” he warned, though he wasn’t entirely sure the cloven- it had to be a cloven- could understand him.  
The creature tilted its head and let out a low gurgling noise. More cloven slunk out of the bushes and trees around the camp. Ford’s heart pounded, but he stayed still and hoped Fiddleford would have the sense to do the same. If they made a wrong move the creatures might attack, and there were so many of them, all different. He wasn’t sure he could fight them all off.

“We don’t mean you any harm,” said Ford, as calmly as he could. “We’re only passing through.”  
The cloven slunk and slithered closer. They muttered and hissed and he caught some of their words, “Men in the forest,” “None come this deep,” “-would be tasty,”  
“Who are you?” growled the hound-toad.  
Ford took a breath. “My name is Stanford-” he began.  
“Stanford don’t,” Fiddleford’s voice was so quiet he nearly missed it. He spared a glance back at his friend and saw that Fiddleford’s eyes were wide and worried and he was watching Ford with a pleading expression.  
“It’s alright, Fiddleford,” he said. “I’m only answering their question,” he turned back to the group of cloven. “I am the Throne Warden of Anniera, and I seek the Deeps of Throg to rescue my brother, Stanley, the High King.”

Murmurs and growls rippled through the cloven. The sudden hostility in the air made him clutch his sword tighter.  
“Anniera?”  
“I remember, it hurts, it _hurts_ , stop it!”  
“I remember Anniera.”  
“The Throne Warden.”  
“He ran away. Didn’t protect his people. His fault, his fault.”

Ford took a step back as the cloven began to snarl and chant, “His fault, his fault, his fault.” His heart pounded. Could he fight off so many of them?  
Then another thought crashed into him.  
These were his people. Twisted and broken, but some of them at least had been Annierans.   
“I don’t want to hurt you!” he shouted. “I just want to get to Throg to free my brother.”

But the cloven were beyond listening. Out of the throng leaped the most hideous cloven Ford had seen. It had a black, lumpy body like a giant slug, but with six spindly legs sticking out from it in odd places. It sprang at Ford, slavering mouth and jaws snapping at him. Ford swung his sword at it and it crashed to the ground, writhing, before it lay still and turned to dust- just like the Fangs.

Before he had time to process what he had done two hogpig cloven with tusks as long as daggers and blackened with mold ran at him. He swung his sword at one but caught its tusks. The other ran at him from the side. Time slowed. He couldn’t free his sword to block the creature so he braced himself to feel the sharp pain of those tusks in his side.

Then, suddenly there was a wild yell and Fiddleford was there, his whistleharp case held up like a shield. The cloven crashed into it and stumbled back. Fiddleford swung the case at its head and it crashed to the ground, stunned.

Ford gaped, then shook his head and kicked back the other, finishing it off with a slice to the chest.

The rest of the cloven rushed forward around them. What followed was a blur of teeth, fur, claws, and Ford’s sword as he swung frantically at the creatures. Fiddleford stood back to back with him, shouting wordless battle cries as the cloven came at him. Ford could only assume he was still using his whistleharp case as a weapon.

Suddenly, the cloven relented, pulling out of the clearing as fast as they had come, leaving behind piles of dust and bones. Ford and Fiddleford stood in the middle of it, breathing hard.

Ford lowered his sword to the ground and let out a relieved laugh. “We did it! We’re not dead! Fiddleford, you were brilliant! Thank you, I-” he turned around, smiling.

And he froze. Fiddleford was bent over, one arm wrapped around his chest, the other hanging limply at his side. His now dented (but not broken) whistleharp case lay beside him.  
And blood dripped out from a wound on his chest, spilling over his fingers and on to the ground.

A jolt went through Ford’s heart and all his relief vanished. Fiddleford looked up at him and gave him a wan smile.   
“S-sorry, S-Stanford,” he whispered. Then he slumped to the ground. Ford caught him and steadied him, but his hands shook.  
“Fiddleford I-” Ford swallowed. “Y-you’re going to be okay. Here, hold on, I, hold on.”

He jumped up and found their packs at the base of a nearby tree, undamaged. He dug through them until he found his medical kit and ran back over. Fiddleford was sitting on the ground, hand still pressed against his wound, staring at nothing. Ford pulled out some bandages and gently pried Fiddleford’s hand away from the injury.

He winced and forced himself to take a deep breath. The wound was deep. Too deep, and too close to his friend’s heart. Mechanically, Ford bandaged it and fastened the dressing as tightly as he could in an effort to stop the bleeding.

_‘This is your fault.’_

Ford squeezed his eyes shut as tears gathered in them.

_‘If you had been in Anniera they wouldn’t have attacked.’_

_‘If you had been in Anniera you might have been able to save them.’_

_‘If you had listened to Fiddleford he might not be dying in front of you.’_

Ford grit his teeth and lifted his head. “No,” he whispered, pouring all his fierce determination into that one word. “ _No._ ”  
“No what, Stanford?”   
Ford looked up. Fiddleford was very pale, and he looked like he was struggling to focus.   
Ford met his eyes. There had to be a way, there had to be. He couldn’t lose the only friend he had left. Not like this, not because of his own stupidity, because of his mistakes.

_The First Well._

The quiet thought slipped into Ford’s mind and excitement, _hope_ , washed through him.

As near as he could tell, somewhere in the Blackwood was the First Well. The Maker had given it to the First Fellows at the beginning of the world, and its water was said to be able to heal _anything_.

Ford took a deep breath and looped his arm under Fiddleford’s, lifting him up as he stood. Fiddleford whimpered, but stood unsteadily.  
“Come on, Fiddleford,” said Ford, his voice quivering with excitement. “We’re going to find the First Well. I told you it was somewhere in the Blackwood, remember?”  
“S-Stanford I don’t think I’m up for an adventure,” mumbled Fiddleford.  
“It’ll be alright,” said Ford. “Just keep walking. We’ll find it, we have to. I think, I think my calculations said it wasn’t far from here. When we find it it’ll fix you right up and you’ll be fine. Come on, I’ll help you.”

As they staggered out of the clearing, Ford remembered to pick up Fiddleford’s whistleharp case and sling it over his friend’s shoulders. Ford picked up both their packs and carried them, hardly feeling the weight.

_‘I won’t lose anyone else,’_ he thought, determinedly. _‘I will_ not _.’_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have a cliffhanger :)))


	12. Stanford's Plea

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time for some more feels! :))) If you enjoy please leave a comment!

Ford stumbled and just barely stopped himself from crashing into the ground. It was pitch black. He didn’t know how long they had been walking. Or, rather, how long he had been walking and dragging Fiddleford and their packs. He was exhausted. His arms and legs quivered and his chest heaved. But anytime he thought about stopping he heard Fiddleford’s ragged, weak breathing by his ear and forced himself to go on.

At first, Fiddleford had cried out or whimpered when they tripped or Ford shifted his grip on him, but now he was silent. Sometimes Ford paused to listen to make sure his friend was still breathing.

Ford had no idea where they were. He had set off, thinking he knew the general direction the First Well should be in, but it was so dark that he could have been spinning in circles for all he knew.

And as much as he hated to admit it, Ford was slowly realizing that he had no idea where the First Well was. Even if it was daylight and he could see he likely wouldn’t be able to find it. And he knew Fiddleford would never make it to daylight.

Finally, Ford sank to his knees in the moss and leaves, unable to go on. He let the packs slide to the ground and gently untangled himself from Fiddleford. He laid his friend down beside him and felt for his heartbeat. It was faint and far too fast. Ford swallowed hard and leaned back, head hung low. Fiddleford was dying and all he’d done was make his friend’s last moments miserable.

“Stanford?”

He jerked his head up and looked over. Fiddleford’s eyes were open, and he was staring nervously up into the darkness.

“I’m here,” said Ford, quickly, kneeling over his friend and taking his hand. “What is it?”  
Fiddleford coughed weakly and tried to smile at him. “When y’get to Th-Throg,” he said in a shaky, quiet voice. “T-try an’ find Tate, would you? Jus’ try, even if y’can’t, please just-” he coughed again.  
Ford felt tears running down from his eyes. “You can find him yourself,” he said, his own voice shaking.  
Fiddleford looked up at him and shook his head the tiniest bit. “Promise? Please?”  
Ford sobbed and brought Fiddleford’s hand up to press against his forehead. “I promise,” he whispered.

Fiddleford smiled at him and shut his eyes. Ford felt frantically for his pulse. It was still there, but it grew weaker with every beat. Ford let out a shuddering breath and looked up through the tree branches, trying to catch even the smallest glimpse of the stars.

He couldn’t.

“You can’t let him die!” he shouted into the black sky. “You can’t! He hasn’t done anything!” he let go of Fiddleford’s hand and clenched his own into fists. “You can’t let him die! He has a son who needs him! He just wants to find him, oh, Maker, please,” he bowed his head, shaking. “Please. I know I’ve done everything wrong. I know it’s my fault that we’re here, I know I should have been there for Stanley, for Anniera. And I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry. But please, please don’t make him pay for my mistakes. Just let me find the First Well, Maker, please, I won’t even tell people I found it, I’ll say you led me to it, please, please, _please_!”

Ford sobbed. He had never really believed in the Maker, not once he was no longer a child. Stanley always had, but Ford had scoffed at the idea of someone else writing his story. He had always thought that he knew best, and that no grand Maker could shape his fate into something he didn’t want. He had always known what was best for himself. That was why he left Anniera, why he had abandoned Stanley. He didn’t need anyone’s help, not his brother’s, not his friend’s, and certainly not the Maker’s.

But now, now when his decisions had led to the downfall of everyone and everything he loved…

Now he dearly wished that someone else would be in control for once.

“Please,” he begged, bowing his head down to the ground. “Please help me find the Well. I can’t- I can’t,” tears spilled down his cheeks. “I can’t lose anyone else. I don’t even know if I’ll find Stanley alive, I- please. Oh, Maker, please.”

He wasn’t sure how long he stayed like that, sobbing and pleading into the dirt, before he heard a soft voice.

_Look up._

Ford did. And when he turned-

There it was. The First Well, a clear pool shining in the moonlight, in a clearing filled with the biggest trees Ford had ever seen.

Ford gasped and scrambled to his feet, shaking. Had the Well been here the whole time? Had he just not been able to see it until the moon came out?

Or…?

Ford knelt down by the water and touched it. It was cool, and a tingling feeling ran up through all six of his fingers and through his arm to his heart, where it burst like a song.

He lifted up his head to the shining, star filled sky. “Thank you,” he said breathlessly. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

He cast around for something to use to scoop up the water and his eyes landed on an enormous seed pod as big as his head. He picked it up and filled it, then hurried over into the shadows of the trees where Fiddleford lay.

With a shaking hand, Ford reached out and felt for his friend’s pulse. For one terrifying moment he felt nothing, then it was there, faintly under his fingers.

Ford pulled back and hesitated, unsure of exactly what to do. Should he try and get Fiddleford to drink it? Just pour it all over him?

Then his eyes landed on Fiddleford’s wound and he knew what to do. He carefully cut away the bandages and lifted the seed, carefully pouring a few drops of the water into the wound.

Ford pulled back and waited breathlessly. Fiddleford took a breath, and then suddenly he was still. Ford felt a terrible jolt of panic through his whole body. He had done it wrong. He had been too late. Fiddleford was dead and it was his fault, he should have listened, he should never have left Anniera, and now he was alone, no, no, no, _No!_

Ford covered his face with his hands, shaking with silent sobs.

“Stanford?”

Ford’s eyes flew open. He watched as Fiddleford sat up, blinking. He ran a hand through his hair and looked around uncertainly.

“What- what happened?” he asked, his eyes settling on Ford. Ford could only gape at him. Fiddleford frowned. “Stanford, you look awful, are you alright?”

Ford shot forward and wrapped his arms around Fiddleford, holding him tight. He laughed, even as tears streamed from his eyes. “You’re alright,” he whispered. “Oh, thank the Maker, you’re alright, Fiddleford.”  
Fiddleford hugged him back. “What happened?” he asked. “I remember somethin’ about the cloven…”  
“They nearly killed you!” said Ford. He suddenly pulled back and looked Fiddleford in the eye, beaming. “I found- no, no, I didn’t find it, the Maker brought me to the First Well! I used the water to heal you!”  
Fiddleford blinked, then grinned a little uncertainly. “Well- I- thanks!” he laughed. “Don’t feel like I almost died.”

Ford leaned back and picked up the seed. “Incredible. We’ll have to take the rest of this with us. The things we could learn from studying it!”  
Fiddleford raised an eyebrow at him. “Or we could save it for if one of us gets hurt again.”  
Ford blinked. “Ah. Yes. Right, that would be, that would be more practical, I suppose.”  
Fiddleford snorted and patted him on the shoulder. “Thanks for savin’ me. Sorry I’m so much trouble to ya,” he looked down.

Ford’s heart twisted. He reached out and put his hands on Fiddleford’s shoulders. “No. I’m sorry. I should have- I’ve been an awful friend,” he looked away. “I know you don’t mean to have nightmares or panic or lag behind, and I should have known that you had a good reason for wanting to come along. I’ve assumed the worst of you this whole time and made you feel like you shouldn’t be here. But you saved my life tonight, and I don’t believe for a second I’d have been able to fight my way out of those cloven all on my own- I’d have to be as big and fierce as a troll to manage that. I am sorry, Fiddleford. I, well, I’ll understand if you don’t want to forgive me.”

Fiddleford stared at him for a moment, then suddenly grinned widely. “Aw, there ain’t nothin’ to forgive, Stanford. I know I’m not that easy to be around right now. I ain’t mad at you. And as for savin’ your life, I think we’re even.”

Ford laughed and covered his face with his hand. Then he reached out and hugged Fiddleford again. “Thank you. I truly don’t deserve a friend like you, Fiddleford, but I’m glad the Maker brought you to me, and made you too stubborn to get left behind.”  
Fiddleford patted his back. “Me too, Stanford. Me too.”


	13. A Respite

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now a chapter where nothing bad happens.

Fiddleford woke to the sound of cheerful birdsong. Sunlight streamed down through the branches of trees that still had most of their leaves, despite the coming winter. The air was warm, and the ground he was lying on felt as soft as a bed.

More remarkable than any of that, however, was the fact that for the first time in four months he actually felt well. He felt _refreshed_. Like he had actually slept a full night. And, as far as he knew, he had. He hadn’t woken up from nightmares once.

He could also breathe normally for the first time since leaving Anniera. He had never realized how good it felt to take a deep breath without his chest feeling tight until he couldn’t anymore. All his aches and pains from their journey had been banished. He half expected his burn scars to be gone when he looked down at his arms, because they no longer even twinged when he moved them. Even his anxiety seemed to have lessened.

He sat up and stretched, enjoying the fact that for once the action didn’t cause him any discomfort. He glanced over and saw Stanford curled up a few feet away, still asleep. Fiddleford grinned. This was the first time since their adventure started that he had woken up before his friend.

He sprang up, surprisingly energized. His first thought was to make a fire for breakfast, but then his eyes caught on the small pool of water nearby and he froze.

Cautiously, reverently, he made his way over to it and knelt down. He gazed into the clear depths of the water and was surprised that he could not see the bottom. Maybe the legends were true and the First Well really did connect to the heart of Aerwiar and give life to everything in it.

Then he looked up.

His mouth dropped open when he saw the massive trees surrounding the pool. Their trunks were as wide as houses, and their branches rose so high they looked as though they could touch the sun itself. Fiddleford realized that there were leaves as big as he was scattered around the clearing and he shook his head. He suddenly had the feeling that they were trespassing, and all of his anxiety returned in full force. They needed to get out of here, they shouldn’t be here, he needed to wake Stanford-

_Be still._

Fiddleford jumped at the voice that seemed to come from everywhere at once, even inside his head. But along with the words came a deep, warm sense of peace, and his worries vanished again. Ford _had_ said that the Maker led him to the first well, Fiddleford reasoned, so it must be alright for them to be there.

He looked down at the water again and a thought slipped into his head. He knew Stanford had some of the water he’d scooped up last night, but Fiddleford couldn’t really remember how much had been left and… well, if last night was anything to go by they might need more.

He frowned and shook himself. It was a silly idea. Wasn’t it?

Fiddleford took a deep breath and rose to his feet. He would think it over while he was getting breakfast ready. He nodded to himself and went to collect wood for a fire.

****

Ford awoke to a delicious smell wafting through the air. He sat up, surprised that he didn’t ache despite everything that had happened last night.

He looked over and saw Fiddleford- looking hale and whole and more cheerful than Ford had seen him on the entire adventure- sitting by a fire, making breakfast. He was smiling and humming as he worked, and it was only then that Ford realized it was the first time he’d heard his friend, normally so musically inclined, singing or humming their entire adventure.

Ford felt a pang in his heart. Fiddleford had been dying last night, but it hurt when he realized that this was the first time he had seen his friend truly _living_ since they’d reunited.

He should have been kinder, more careful, more understanding, he should have-

“Mornin’, Stanford!” called Fiddleford cheerfully. “I found some bacon somebody must’ve slipped in our packs at the farmhouse, and I found some eggs up in the trees! Figured that’d do for breakfast.”  
Ford stared at him for a moment, then nodded slowly. “That sounds fantastic, Fiddleford.”  
He was rewarded with a grin before Fiddleford went back to cooking. Ford stood and looked around. He wondered where in the Blackwood they had ended up and how long it would take them to get back on course.

He started to walk over to the fire and his foot bumped something on the ground. He looked down to see the water from the First Well, still sitting in the seed pod he’d used as a bowl the night before. Ford knelt down and examined it. As far as he could tell none of it had evaporated, and bumping into it hadn’t spilled any.

He grabbed his pack and rifled through it until he found an extra canteen. He drew the initials, “F.W.” on both sides, then very carefully poured the water into it. It filled the canteen perfectly. Ford glanced over at the Well and considered trying to take more but the idea seemed wrong somehow. He had already taken more than he needed. Even though he knew that the Well could never run dry taking anything else seemed greedy.

So instead he walked over and sat by Fiddleford at the fire. Fiddleford grinned and handed him a plate of eggs and bacon, before dishing up his own and digging in.

Ford ate slowly and stared up at what he could see of the sky. “Goodness, it’s afternoon already,” he said, surprised.  
Fiddleford glanced up as well. “Reckon it is,” he agreed.  
“Are you… are you up to leaving after breakfast?” Ford asked. Fiddleford seemed fine, better than fine actually, but Ford couldn’t quite get the image of his friend with a gaping hole in his chest out of his head.  
Fiddleford laughed. “Stanford, I feel like I could run all the way to the top of that mountain!” he grinned. “I can’t remember the last time I felt this good.”  
Ford nodded, relieved. “You look better.”  
“I don’t even feel that scared,” said Fiddleford, his voice quieter. “I mean, I’m scared, but it don’t really feel like it matters right now, y’know?”  
Ford nodded. He didn’t exactly understand, but he nodded anyway. “I’m glad.”  
Fiddleford suddenly paused and looked at him. “I’m not botherin’ you, am I?”  
Ford blinked. “What?” he managed, uncertainly.  
“Well, it’s just, I know you haven’t been much for talkin’ since we set out, I can be quiet if you want.” Fiddleford stared down at his plate.

Ford stared at him for a long minute, completely unsure of what to say and wondering how in the world he’d ended up such a terrible friend.  
“I would be happy for you to keep talking, Fiddleford,” said Ford, finally. “In fact, I think- if you don’t mind, of course- that it would be good to have a song when we set off again.”  
Fiddleford looked up at him, eyes bright. “Really?”  
Ford smiled and nodded. “Really.”

Fiddleford _beamed_ at him. “Well then we best be gettin’ on our way!” he said, springing up.  
Ford snorted. “I’m not even done eating.”  
Fiddleford shrugged. “That’s alright, I am. I’ll get things ready.”

Fiddleford scampered over to their packs and paused. He held up the canteen with the First Well’s water. “Where d’you want this to go?”  
Ford hesitated, then shrugged and tried to seem nonchalant. “I thought maybe you ought to carry it.”  
Fiddleford stared at him. “Really?”  
Ford nodded. “I think it’s better off with you than with me.”  
Fiddleford glanced down at the canteen, then nodded solemnly. “I’ll take good care of it.”

While Fiddleford was finding room in his pack for the canteen, Ford noticed something else sitting by their packs. He walked over and knelt down beside Fiddleford’s whistleharp case.

It was, as he had observed the night before, dented, but not broken. Pieces of broken wood hung off of it by screws, and underneath them now Ford could see a solid metal cover.  
He looked over at Fiddleford. “Did you make this?” he asked.  
Fiddleford’s head shot up and after a moment he grinned. “Sure did!”  
“It’s as sturdy as any shield I’ve ever seen,” said Ford.  
“And it’s sealed on the inside, so water can’t get in,” said Fiddleford proudly. “And it’s got a locking mechanism on it, so people can’t just rip it open and steal it.”

Ford wondered who was running around stealing whistleharps and why they were such a threat that Fiddleford had felt the need to design a lock, but he decided not to ask. “It’s very well made to have withstood such a beating.”  
“Yeah, I’m pretty happy that it’s held up,” said Fiddleford. “After all, I didn’t think I’d be fightin’ cloven with it.”  
“I still think you would have been better off with a sword,” said Ford, mildly.  
Fiddleford shrugged, unbothered. “Eh, to each his own,” he scooped up the case and re-fastened it to his pack. “You ready to head out yet?”  
Ford raised an eyebrow. “If you are.”  
Fiddleford nodded and slung his pack over his shoulders. “Just tell me which way to go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is this the calm before the storm? Why yes, yes it is. :)


	14. The Deeps of Throg

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Friendly reminder that the only ship in this fic is Friendship.

The next two days of travel went smoothly. Their journey to the First Well had set them back a bit, but they made up the time in other ways.

One very noticeable way was that Fiddleford no longer seemed to have trouble keeping up. Instead of lagging behind he walked beside Ford now and talked or sang much more often. Ford found that he actually enjoyed it, and he started to wonder what would have happened if he had been kinder and tried to help Fiddleford sooner. Maybe they would have made better time from the start.

Ford also found himself wondering what other old injuries Fiddleford had kept hidden from him. He still had scars on his arms, but the water had obviously healed _something_ inside of him, because he seemed, well, healthier.

Despite all of these encouraging things, however, Ford noticed that the closer they got to the mountains the quieter and more nervous Fiddleford became. Whatever affects the water had had on his friend’s mental health were wearing off much faster than those on his physical health.

At first, Ford wasn’t sure why Fiddleford stopped chattering at him and singing, but soon he could feel it too. A heaviness hung over the Blackwood this close to the Killridge Mountains, a spirit of dread and despair that affected even Ford’s determination. They climbed down, into a deep ravine, where only weak sunlight reached. The ground was damp and slimy and littered with the remains of dead trees.

Suddenly Fiddleford grabbed his arm and pointed. “Stanford, look.”  
A week ago Fiddleford’s clinginess would have annoyed him and Ford would have shaken him off. Now Ford simply looked up and squinted in the dim light.  
At first he could see nothing, but then…

There, ahead of them, half covered with dead leaves, was a skeletal ribcage. Ford suppressed a shudder and clenched his jaw. Now that he was looking he could see more bones ahead of them. He took a deep breath and lifted his head.

“Come on,” he said, quietly.

Fiddleford did not let go of him. Ford could feel him shaking. The despair leaking out from the Deeps grew stronger and pressed down on them, until Ford could feel his feet dragging in the fallen leaves. Stagnant pools appeared before them, littered with bones large and small. Ford tried not to look at them, tried not to think about who they might have been or how long Gnag must have been capturing people to transform in order for there to be so many bones.

Finally they came to the source of the darkness. A great cave rose up before them, and above it stood a massive slab of rock, like a tombstone, so tall it disappeared into the trees above. The entrance to the cave was black as night, like a great maw waiting to devour them.

“Well, Fiddleford,” said Ford, his voice shaking a little. “You were right.”

When he got no reply, Ford turned to look at his friend. Fiddleford had let go of him and had his arms tightly wrapped around himself. He was shaking badly, and his eyes were wide with terror. Ford remembered him looking similarly before they entered the Blackwood. Ford had no desire to send Fiddleford running into the Deeps like he’d sent him running into the Blackwood, but he really wasn’t sure how to calm his friend down either. Singing had worked before, but he had no idea if there was any sort of guard inside the cave (it seemed unlikely, but it was possible) and there was also always the possibility of the cloven hearing them and attacking again.

Ford held up his hands and spoke softly. “Fiddleford, it’s alright. We have to do this, remember?”  
Fiddleford just stared at him for a moment and Ford wondered if his friend could hear him. Then Fiddleford took a breath and glanced up at him.

“I just don’t wanna get lost down there, in the dark,” Fiddleford’s voice shook. “With- with the monsters down there, I, it was so dark, there weren’t any stars, Stanford, the-the night Anniera burned. It was so dark on th-the Sea…”

Ford felt a pang in his heart. He stepped forward and laid a hand on Fiddleford’s shoulder. “It’ll be alright,” he said, gently. “I’ll be with you, anyway.”  
“Y-you promise?” Fiddleford whispered.  
Ford nodded. “I promise. I’ll stay with you, no matter what happens.”

Fiddleford shut his eyes and took a deep, shuddering breath. Then he lifted his head and looked at Ford with renewed determination. “A-alright. L-let’s go,” he said, adjusting his glasses and starting off towards the cave maw. Ford hid a small smile and followed.

At first the passage into the cave seemed impassible. It was a slick hill with trickles of water running down it. After a few tries however, Ford found a path, and with some slipping and sliding they made it down.

The blackness of the cave seemed like a living thing, so thick that Ford was certain if he reached out he could touch it. They would need a torch. He found some strips of cloth in his backpack and oil. He tied the cloth around a long white bone and lit it. The light seemed feeble in comparison to the darkness, but it lit up enough of their path that Ford could see boulders ahead. He turned back and saw Fiddleford behind him, pale and twitching. Ford reached down and took his hand and squeezed it. Fiddleford squeezed back and clung to him tightly.

“Alright,” said Ford, stepping into the darkness. “Here we go. For Stanley.”  
“For Tate,” Fiddleford whispered.

And then they were swallowed by the darkness.

At first there were boulders to be avoided, and the ground cracked and shifted under them. After a little while though the ground evened out and began to slant up, which Ford thought was encouraging. They walked up and up, until they came to a circular chamber with four tunnels leading off of it. Ford paused, frowning.

“Which way, Stanford?” Fiddleford asked, voice steadier than before.  
Ford did not snap back that he had no idea, that he did not make a habit of visiting Throg, thank you very much. Instead he took a breath and tried to steady his nerves. “I’m not sure,” he said, finally. “What do you think?”

There was a pause, then, “Left. It don’t smell so musty that way.”

Ford bit back a slightly hysterical laugh and nodded. At this point he had nothing better to go on. Soon they came to a staircase that seemed to go on and on forever. Several times they had to stop and catch their breath before going on once more.

They reached a landing where the passageway split again. Each direction led to more stairs. He stopped and tilted his head.  
“Which way this time, do you think?” he asked.  
Fiddleford shrugged. “I don’t know. All of ‘em smell awful this time.”

Ford shut his eyes and listened. Maybe another one of the senses could help them this time. There, he thought he heard very faint sounds coming from the left stairway.

He tugged Fiddleford up and they started climbing again. Up and up they went, the noises Ford had heard getting louder until finally they stepped through a doorway into a hall filled with rows upon rows of cages.

Ford felt a chill go through him. He could hear shuffling and snuffling noises from the cells. There were creatures in them. Cloven or humans… 

_‘The Fangs rounded up a bunch of people, adults an’ children,’_ he remembered Fiddleford saying. Ford shuddered. There were far more prisoners here, in Gnag’s dungeon than just the two they were searching for.

Ford suddenly realized Fiddleford was no longer holding his hand. He whipped around, panic briefly flaring in his chest before he saw his friend dashing back and forth in front of the cells.

“Tate!” Fiddleford hissed. “Stanley! Are ya in there?” he peeked into cells desperately.  
Ford forced himself to walk over and look into the cages. The first one he looked into had a shaggy cloven with a disturbingly human expression on its face as it looked pleadingly at Ford. Ford jerked back, heart pounding and hurried to the next one. At first he didn’t think there was anything inside, but then he looked at the ceiling of the cage and saw half a dozen massive bats hanging there. Another cage held wolves, another snakes, then more cloven.

“They ain’t here, Stanford,” said Fiddleford, sounding dejected. He looked up at Ford with haunted eyes and Ford vaguely wondered if his own face displayed his horror.

This could not continue. He hadn’t been sure what he would do after rescuing Stanley, but after seeing the poor, condemned creatures here…

Gnag had to be stopped. Ford had no idea how to accomplish that, but he knew he had to try. Maybe if he found Stanley here and his brother wasn’t too badly hurt they could attack right now. Find Gnag in the depths of his own castle and kill him. The thought sent a thrill through Ford, and he felt energy course through him.

“Come on, Fiddleford, I have a feeling Throg’s dungeons are bigger than this,” he said, taking his friend’s hand once more and pulling him along.

They passed more cells and cages with more animals and half-melded creatures. Some looked more human than others, some called out to them with garbled words as they passed. But none of them were Stanley.

Ford grew careless. They had seen no guards or met any opposition yet. Maybe Gnag simply didn’t think the dungeons were worth guarding. So he stopped listening at doors before opening them, stopped trying to creep along the hallways. It was noisy enough in here anyway, with the sounds of the animals and cloven.

And…

“Stanford what is that?” said Fiddleford suddenly.  
“What?” Ford asked, frowning.  
“That music! I’ve been hearin’ it since we started up that second stairway. You can’t hear it?”

Ford frowned. He had been more focused on looking and calling for his brother, but now that he was thinking about it…

He could suddenly feel the air thrumming around him with the tune of a song, repeating over and over again. It was terrible and almost mesmerizing.

“I hear it now,” said Ford quietly.  
“It’s drivin’ me crazy!” said Fiddleford, pulling his hand out of Ford’s to cover his ears. “No wonder all those poor cloven are mad, havin’ to listen to this all the time.”  
“Well the sooner we find Stanley and Tate the sooner we can get out of here,” said Ford, taking his hand again. “Come on.”

Ford pushed open the door at the end of the hallway-

-and froze.

There, lounging on benches sat forty or so Fangs.

The lizard- and _wolf_ , since when were the Fangs wolves?!- creatures lifted their heads and stared at Ford, just as shocked to see him as he was to see them. Then the lizard Fangs hissed and the wolf Fangs growled and every one of them sprang up and grabbed a weapon.

Ford slammed the door and ran, dragging Fiddleford with him. The Fangs shouted and howled behind him, yelling, “Stop right there!” and “Intruderssss!” and “Capture them for the Nameless one!”

Ford charged heedlessly through passageways, randomly taking them right and left, trying desperately to shake the Fangs.

He did not.

Finally, he slammed his way through a doorway only to find a dead end. He froze and started to turn, but the Fangs were already filling the hallway beyond the door. Ford shoved Fiddleford back behind him and drew his sword.

The first Fang through the door was a lizard. It stood as tall as Ford, with fangs that dripped poison and a sword in its scaly hands. Ford sliced through it and it crumpled at his feet, already turning to dust as another took its place. This one was a wolf Fang. Ford had never seen one before, and it was less hideous to look at than the lizard Fangs. It was covered in fur instead of scales and no poison dripped from its mouth…

But its eyes were cold and calculating, and far more intelligent than the ones of the lizard Fangs had ever been.

Ford cut it down as well. He killed Fang after Fang as they tried to force their way into the room. A faint hope flitted through his mind that maybe he would kill them all and they would be able to get away.

But the Fangs kept coming. They must have called for reinforcements.

Then, one of the Fangs jabbed the butt of a spear into Ford’s chest. The force of it knocked him to the floor and left the door unguarded for one terrible moment. It was all the Fangs needed. They forced their way inside before Ford could scramble to his feet.

Ford turned and grabbed Fiddleford, running to the back of the room and pushing his friend behind him. The Fangs surrounded them. The lizard Fangs grinned and jeered, and even the wolf Fangs looked pleased.

“There’s nowhere to run,” said one of the wolves. “Give up now, and Gnag will make you strong, as he has done for us.”   
“Not a chance,” said Ford.  
The Fang’s eyes hardened. “Then you will die.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another cliffhanger for you :)))


	15. A New Song in the Deeps

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now you finally get to see why I've been dragging Fiddleford along :)

Fiddleford had watched Stanford fight the Fangs, trying desperately to think of what he could do to help. But he was useless. Stanford had been right, he should have brought a weapon. Not that Fiddleford had ever been any good with weapons, but even he could swing a sword at a horde of Fangs.

Now they were truly trapped. The Fangs had rushed into the room and cornered them. And now they were going to die.

Fiddleford felt himself shaking. He was terrified. The Fangs stared him down and he fought back visions of fire and swords and claws, shutting his eyes tight. Was this how Tate had felt when he was captured? How Emma felt when the Fangs came to their door?

Determination welled up in him, pushing through his fear. No. Emma had died fighting and Tate… Tate was here somewhere, in Throg, alone and scared too.

Fiddleford lifted his head. He was not going to die being terrified. He was _not_.

With shaking hands he reached over and unhooked his whistleharp case. He unlocked it and calmly pulled out his whistleharp, setting the case by his feet. Then he lifted it to his lips, shut his eyes and began to play.

Strength flowed through him. He imagined the green hills of Anniera, unravaged by fire. The Castle Rysen standing tall. The cheerful village he lived in.

The faces of his wife and son.

Fiddleford McGucket was not going to die afraid.

****

They were doomed. Ford knew there was no escape, not from so many Fangs. He lifted his head and held his sword steady, determined to fight until the bitter end.

_‘I’m sorry, Stanley.’_

Suddenly he heard music. Ford frowned and glanced behind him. Fiddleford was playing his whistleharp. It was a cheerful children’s tune often sung in defiance of nightmares or fear called, “Hey ho the Morning Comes”. Ford stared. Fiddleford’s eyes were shut and his face was peaceful.

Then he heard a whimper. Ford’s head whipped back to the Fangs.

His mouth fell open.

The Fangs were moaning and hissing in pain, shaking their heads and covering their ears. Weapons clattered to the floor and several Fangs dropped to their knees after them.

Ford slowly lowered his sword, staring in shock. The Fangs couldn’t stand music.

_The Fangs couldn’t stand music._

He turned back to Fiddleford. His eyes were still shut, and his face still calm, completely unaware of what he had done. Unaware that he had just saved their lives.

It took a moment for Ford to find his voice, and when he did all he could manage was a quiet, “Fiddleford.”  
His friend paused and opened his eyes, he looked at Ford for a moment and then…

Then he looked out over the room full of writhing Fangs. His eyes widened, and his arms fell limply to his sides.

“What- what happened?” Fiddleford asked, staring.  
Ford swallowed. “You did. Apparently the Fangs hate music.”  
Fiddleford looked up at him quickly. “What?”

The Fangs were already starting to recover. Ford saw several shake their heads and look up, growling. He turned back to Fiddleford. “Play something, quick!”  
Fiddleford blinked, then suddenly grinned. He started playing a bright, lively Anniera tune and the Fangs cringed away again. Several of the wolf Fangs started howling in pain or anger.

Ford laughed. “Come on, Fiddleford, let’s get out of here!”

He hurried out of the room, Fiddleford following as he played. When there were several hallways and doors between them and the room of Fangs, Fiddleford stopped and took deep breath, raising his eyebrow at Ford.

“So, what was that about my whistleharp not being useful?” he smirked.  
Ford laughed again, shaking his head. “Alright, alright, I’m sorry.”  
“Don’t be underestimatin’ us musicians, Stanford,” said Fiddleford, puffing out his chest.  
“It’s certainly not a mistake I’ll make again,” grinned Ford. “Now come on, we’d better hurry before the Fangs send word about you and your secret weapon and Gnag sends trolls after us.”

****

Tate McGucket stood quietly with his head bowed, swaying slightly to the Song of the Ancient Stones. It wasn’t a very good song, and it was the only one anyone down here seemed to know how to sing.

Hopefully, once he changed, he wouldn’t notice it anymore.

He was in a very long line of people waiting to climb into the Stone Keeper’s box to become a Fang. When he had first come to Throg the idea had terrified him. He didn’t want to be a monster like the ones who had destroyed his home and killed his mama.

But that had been a long time ago now- he wasn’t sure how long- and he was tired. He was tired of being scared and hungry and he was tired of missing his mama and papa. Becoming a Fang was supposed to fix all that.

At first, Tate had been certain that his papa would come to rescue him. He had sat in his cell and defiantly sang out his own songs that his papa had taught him. He had refused to go with the others when the Stone Keeper came to collect people to be Fanged. He was going to wait for his papa.

His papa hadn’t come. Or maybe he had and he just couldn’t find Tate. Throg was very big and very confusing, after all.

Tate sighed. He looked around the people in front of him. It was a long way to the Stone Keeper’s box. He looked down and scuffed his worn shoe on the stone floor and wished they would go faster.

And then…

Tate lifted his head and looked around. He could hear something. Something different that wasn’t the Song or the people chanting, “sing the song of the ancient stones and the blood of the beast imbues your bones”. He shut his eyes and focused as hard as he could on it.

Suddenly it grew louder and Tate could hear it clearly. Hope stirred in his heart. His eyes popped open and he looked around excitedly.

It was a song. A new song in the Deeps.

Tate knew there was only one person who could be playing a song like that here.

_‘Papa!’_

Tate looked back at the door of the room. It was guarded by two lizard Fangs, but they looked bored. He looked up at the people in the line. They were focused ahead, on the Stone Keeper and the box.

His heart pounded. Maybe his papa couldn’t find him, but maybe, just maybe he could find his papa.

Tate took a deep breath and shot towards the door. He stayed close to the line of people, hoping the Fangs wouldn’t see him (or smell him). But no one paid any attention to a very small boy sneaking past them, they were too busy thinking about how much better their lives would be as Fangs.

At the back of the line he snuck behind a rock and peeped out from behind it at the guards. One of them yawned. They were watching ahead, if he was careful they might not even see him.

Tate dashed forward, very close to the Fangs, and stumbled through the open doorway into the dim hall beyond. He stood in the shadows, breathing hard.

A thrill ran through him. He had gotten out! He grinned and listened for the music again.

There! He turned towards it and started running along the hall, hope bubbling up in him.

_‘I’m coming, papa.’_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For reference- because I like to know these things when reading stories- Tate is six.
> 
> I have been looking forward to this chapter so much! :D Music is an incredibly important part of the Wingfeather Saga and Fiddleford is a very important character to me so I was happy have a reason to connect the two. ^_^
> 
> Edit: Oh and I forgot! The song Fiddleford plays in this chapter, "Hey ho the Morning Comes", is a real song that I wrote for my original novels! :D


	16. Not What He Seems

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This time I shamelessly stole a title from a Gravity Falls episode. Considering which title it is that should give you a small idea of what's coming. ;)

Ford and Fiddleford hurried along the endless passageways of Throg, calling Stanley and Tate’s names as loud as they dared when they passed rows of cells. Many lost creatures looked up at them, but none were the people they sought.

Every time they were confronted by Fangs Fiddleford played his whistleharp and Ford found a way for them to sneak away. He didn’t know how they were ever going to make it out of Throg after taking so many twists and turns.

It was during one of the times Fiddleford was playing that the vision came to Ford. He was standing in front of a cell, away from all the others. He looked inside and saw a dark heap in the corner. Ford couldn’t make out any details about it, but he knew without a shadow of a doubt that it was Stanley.

The vision ended abruptly and Ford found himself blinking at the stone walls. Fiddleford stood there too, looking concerned.  
“Stanford, are you okay?”  
Ford blinked. “I know where Stanley is.”  
“What?”  
“Just trust me!” he said, hurrying down the hall. “This way, hurry!”

Fiddleford followed him and soon they were dashing through the dungeons again. Ford could feel something drawing him on, like an invisible cord was tied around his chest pulling him to his brother.

It grew darker. There were only occasional torches lighting the walls, and as much as Ford hated it there were several times they had to slow down and walk side by side so they didn’t run into anything (or anyone) in the dark. The only good thing was that there didn’t seem to be any Fang guards down here.

Finally, after one such period of darkness, the hall turned and there was the cell from Ford’s vision. The door, unlike others they had passed, was solid metal except for a few bars over a window near the top. The door was set into the very stone, so they could see nothing of who was inside. One single torch flickered near the door, giving off a feeble light.

“Stanley’s in there?” said Fiddleford quietly, his voice quivering a bit.  
“Yes,” said Ford, without hesitation. He started to walk towards the door, then stopped, suddenly full of doubt. Even though he was here to rescue Stan, would his brother be glad to see him? Ford had abandoned him, after all, which was why Stanley was here in the first place.

Ford took a deep breath and steeled himself. It didn’t matter. Stanley needed him, and for once Ford was going to be there for him. His brother didn’t deserve to wait a second longer just because Ford was worried he would be angry.

So he strode to the door and looked in the barred window.

“Stanley?” he called into the gloom. “Are you there? It’s Ford, I’ve come to rescue you.”

Silence greeted his words. Ford swallowed hard. He knew Stanley was here, he _knew_ it. Maybe his brother was hurt and unconscious. Or maybe…

Maybe he was dead.

Ford sucked in a breath and shoved that thought away. The Maker would not have brought them all this way just for Stan to be dead.

…Would he?

Ford tugged on the handle of the door, but it was locked. He cast around for anything he could use to open it, but there was nothing. How could he possibly have forgotten a key?! But where would he have even found a key? Was he supposed to search every Fang they met to find it? Did Gnag have the keys? Was he going to have to find Gnag and fight him for them? He might be able to, if Fiddleford’s playing could keep the Fangs at bay. Though presumably on higher levels they had better security-

“Stanford hold this,” Fiddleford shoved a torch and then his whistleharp into Ford’s hands. Ford blinked.  
“What are you doing?” he asked uncertainly.  
Fiddleford knelt down and examined the lock, then took off his pack and rummaged through it. “You may recall that I like to build things and tinker with ‘em,” he pulled out a pouch of tools Ford remembered getting for him back in the Hollows. “I didn’t ask for these just for fun, y’know, I thought we might need ‘em. I was pretty good at pickin’ locks when we were kids, remember?”  
Ford stared at him. He did vaguely remember Fiddleford picking various locks around the castle to get them into rooms when they were young. Stanley had always thought it was fantastic.

“Gimme a few minutes,” said Fiddleford. “If I can’t get this unlocked we can just take the door off its hinges.”  
“A-alright,” said Ford, shaking his head. “I’m becoming more glad by the hour that you came with me, Fiddleford.”  
Fiddleford chuckled. “I’m just glad I managed to be useful somehow.”

Ford turned back to the darkness of the cell. “Hang on, Stanley!” he called. “We’ll get you out. Fiddleford’s here with me, you remember Fiddleford, don’t you?”  
Still no response. Undeterred, Ford carried on. “I’m so sorry, Stanley, really I am. I-I hope you can forgive me. I should never have left you.”

The cell remained silent. Ford sagged a little and rested his head against the bars.

Not long after he heard a click and a thunk and Fiddleford clapped his hands, grinning. “Alright, the lock’s taken care of,” he stepped back. “Go get your brother, Stanford.”

Ford took a deep breath and pulled the door of the cell open. He handed Fiddleford the torch and whistleharp back and stepped into the dark. “Stanley?”

There. Movement in the corner of the cell. Ford felt relief wash through him. If Stanley was moving that meant he was alive. “Stanley I’m here. Come on, let’s get-”

Something crashed into Ford and slammed him back into the dirt. Ford felt the wind knocked out of him and heard Fiddleford’s panicked yell of, “Stanford!”

Ford sucked in air and tried to see the thing that was now pinning him to the ground. He could make out the jagged outline of a face and a hulking body. What kind of monster had they let in here with his brother?!

That thought gave Ford a burst of energy. He bunched his legs under him and kicked into the monster’s stomach with all his strength. It roared, and its grip loosened enough that Ford managed to squirm free.

He scrambled to his feet just in time to dodge a swipe from a clawed hand as big as his head. Ford stumbled back and ran to the other side of the cell. He tumbled to his knees and cast around in the darkness. “Stanley! Stanley where are you?”

But there was nothing. Not even a scrap of clothing to indicate his brother had been there. But in the vision he had _known_ that Stan was in this cell.

The creature growled, and Ford felt a feeling of sick dread inside him. He looked up at the shadowy outline of the monster and said in a shaking voice, “Stanley?”

The creature roared and grabbed him by the shirt, swinging him through the air and throwing him into the dim torchlight. Ford crashed to the ground, winded and gasping again. The monster followed him, and finally Ford could see its face. It was hideous, covered in fur, with fangs jutting up from its lower lip. Horns like those of a goat rose up from its head, and two furry ears stuck out on either side of its face. Two yellow eyes glowed out at him from under a heavy brow, and its mouth was curved up in a snarl.

And Ford knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that this was his brother.

“Stanley,” he said hoarsely. “Stanley, it’s me, your brother!”  
The cloven swung a mighty fist at Ford. He barely managed to roll away in time. Ford sprung to his feet and looked pleadingly at the creature.

“Stanley, please!” he shouted, shaking. “Don’t you remember me, even a little?”  
The creature huffed and stared at him.

And then, it spoke.

“Why do you keep saying that?” it rumbled. Its voice was deep and harsh, but it was also his brother’s. It was twisted and mangled, but Ford could hear Stanley’s voice in the creature’s words.  
“Saying what?” Ford asked.  
“ _Stanley_ ,” growled the creature.  
Ford gaped at him. “That- that’s your name.”

The creature’s roar shook the cell. Ford stumbled back a pace.

“I HAVE NO NAME!” it shouted. “The Stone Keeper has not given me one.”  
Ford’s heart pounded. That seemed important somehow, but he didn’t have time to think about it right now. Now, he stood straight and forced himself to take a step towards the beast.

“Yes, you do have a name,” said Ford, firmly. “Your name is Stanley Pines, High King of the Shining Isle of Anniera.”  
The creature snarled, but it seemed uncertain somehow, so Ford continued.  
“My name is Stanford Pines, and I,” he swallowed hard. “I am your twin brother. _Elder_ , twin brother. I’ve come to, to rescue you.”  
The creature tilted its head, considering. “You can get me out?”  
Ford took a deep breath. “Yes,” he said, hoping desperately that it was true.  
“Hmm,” rumbled the creature. “I would be free?”  
Ford nodded. “Yes.”  
The creature stared at him, then finally nodded. “Fine. Show me the way out.”

Ford let out his breath in a whoosh and grinned. “Thank you, Stanley.”  
“Don’t call me that,” the creature snapped. He folded huge, hairy arms over his chest. Ford also realized that his brother had a tail, along with all the other changes.  
“What if… what if I call you Stan?” Ford suggested.  
He huffed. “Fine,” Stan said after a moment.

Ford felt relief wash through him and he walked around Stan to the door. It was going to be alright. He would get his brother out and they would figure things out from there. Stan might be a seven-foot-tall cloven now, but he was still Ford’s little brother. It would be alright.

That was he thought, anyway, until he nearly bumped into Fiddleford in the doorway.  
“What d’you think you’re doing?!” Fiddleford hissed at him.  
“Rescuing my brother,” said Ford, trying to sound confident.  
“That ain’t Stanley!” said Fiddleford, his eyes wide. “I dunno what that is, but it’s not yer brother, Ford!”  
“Yes it is,” said Ford. “Look, Fiddleford, I know this seems crazy, but I know, I _know_ that creature is my brother. I don’t know what they did to him but I’m going to find a way to fix it. Just, just trust me, please?”

Fiddleford stared at him, and Ford realized he looked terrified. Ford reached out a hand and set it on his shoulder.  
“It’ll be alright,” he promised. “Now come on, we need to get out of here.”

“Are you two gonna stand there all day?” Stan growled behind him. Ford shook his head, and propelled Fiddleford out of the doorway. Once he was moving, Fiddleford didn’t stop. He trotted ahead of them, casting nervous glances back at Ford and Stan.

They walked in silence for a while until Ford had gathered enough courage to speak to his brother again. “So, Stan, if you don’t remember me, or your name, what do you remember?”  
Stan was silent for so long Ford started to think his brother wouldn’t answer, then, “I remember the dark. And the song. And the Stone Keeper.”  
Ford bit his lip. “Who- who’s the Stone Keeper?”  
“I don’t know,” Stan rumbled. “She makes us strong. That’s all I need to know.”  
“And,” Ford hesitated. “You don’t remember anything else?”  
“No,” said Stan. He offered no further explanation.

Ford couldn’t find anything else to say. What good would saying sorry do if his brother couldn’t even remember what he was apologizing for?  
If he had come sooner, could he have prevented this? If he had been quicker to leave the Hollows would he have been in time to save his brother from this?

He didn’t know. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know. But the only other option was that Stan’s transformation had been inevitable, which was horrifying for a whole host of other reasons.

Ahead of them Fiddleford started to play a song, and Ford realized that they had come out of the dark passageway and were back in the main levels of Throg. Not far ahead of them were a group of snarling, but pacified Fangs. He looked around and spotted a side hall that led away from them.

Before he could lead them down it, however, he heard a growl behind him. He turned and saw Stan shaking his head, eyes shut.

“Stan?” Ford said, in a much shakier voice than he’d expected.  
“Get that idiot to stop that,” Stan grumbled.  
Ford took a deep breath. “The music is the only thing keeping us from being overrun by Fangs,” he said as placatingly as he could.  
Stan snorted. “What? Those little wolves and lizards? I could rip them to pieces.”  
“Maybe so,” said Ford. “But you couldn’t do it forever. Throg is filled with thousands upon thousands of Fangs. You could not fight them all.”  
Stan looked like he disagreed, but he only grunted and lowered his hands from his ears. “Fine. Just get me out of here then.”  
“Gladly,” said Ford. “Fiddleford! This way!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We have acquired Stan! Sort of. And yes, it IS Stan, in case you were worried.
> 
> If you enjoyed, please leave a comment!


	17. Lost are Found

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On to what is probably my favorite chapter so far! :D
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

Stan. _Stanley._ Stanford.

What stupid names. The Stone Keeper would have given him a better name. He wished she had named him, instead of the stranger who had come to his cell.

Stan followed the two strange men through the maze of tunnels and walkways. After the second time they were confronted by Fangs he knew their smell well enough to pick it out of all the others and told it to the man called Stanford. Stanford seemed happy about this for some reason, but Stan had only done it to not have to hear the horrible music the other man kept playing.

He didn’t speak if he didn’t have to. Stanford didn’t say much either. The only time the other one made a sound was when he played the music.

Stan sniffed the air. There were more Fangs ahead, but not a lot of them. Maybe ten. He grinned.

He walked past Stanford and shoved the other man out of his way.

“Stan, where are you going?!” called Stanford in an irritatingly worried voice.

Stan did not reply. He heard footsteps hurrying after him, but he ignored them until he felt a hand on his arm. He looked down and snarled at Stanford, who released him immediately, but still looked concerned.

“Get out of the way,” said Stan, shoving the man behind him. Just then the group of Fangs came around the corner.

Stan roared and the creatures froze. Before they had recovered he sprang into the middle of them, claws slashing and teeth snapping. His claws sliced through the creatures like paper, and blood spattered him. Good. Maybe the smell would draw others.

He had been itching for a fight since the moment he sang the song, and it was much more satisfying to kill the Fangs- who at least tried to fight- than it had been to fight Stanford- who had barely fought back.

“Stan?”

He whipped around and saw Stanford staring at him in shock.

“Told you I could take ‘em,” he grinned.  
Stanford didn’t say anything, just nodded.

Stan hoped the man would fight him later. Stan needed Stanford to escape, but after they were out of Throg Stan had decided he would kill both of the men. Despite what Stanford seemed to think he could take care of himself, and the last thing he needed was two annoying humans tagging along after him. The smaller one’s songs would be a problem, but Stan was confident he could deal with it.

Then he would truly be free.

****

Ford stared at his brother, blood spattered and grinning, and felt a small seed of doubt in his mind. Maybe Fiddleford was right. Maybe anything that had once been Stanley in this creature was lost. Maybe he really was a monster.

“Which way, Stanford?” said Stan, spitting out Ford’s name like it left a bad taste in his mouth.  
Ford took a breath. “You can just call me Ford. And, ah, this way.”

He had no idea where they were going. Some of the hallways looked familiar, and he tried to stick with those, but they had taken too many twists and turns in their search. He wanted to ask Fiddleford about it, but he couldn’t do that with Stan listening in. Ford had a feeling that it would not be good to let Stan know they were lost. So he led them along as best he could.

They had been walking for a bit before Ford suddenly realized he hadn’t seen Fiddleford for a while. He felt a brief surge of panic until he whipped around and saw his friend trudging along behind Stan. Fiddleford’s head was down and he had hung his whistleharp on his backpack again (though he hadn’t put it back in its case). His arms were wrapped around himself and he looked as miserable as Ford had ever seen him.

Ford walked back, telling Stan to keep going forward as he passed. He slipped up beside Fiddleford and walked with him a few moments in silence.

“What’s wrong?” he asked finally.  
Fiddleford sighed. “Nothin’ you can fix, Stanford,” he said tiredly.  
Ford frowned. “What does that mean?”  
“It means we’re walkin’ through an enemy fortress with a great big monster you’re convinced is yer brother, an’ we’d never even have found him if you hadn’t got that vision and this place is a maze an’ we might never even get out let alone, let alone…” he took a shaky breath, and Ford saw a tear fall down his cheek.  
Realization suddenly slammed into Ford. “Your son. Oh, Fiddleford, I’m sorry, I-”  
“It’s okay,” said Fiddleford quickly. “It was stupid for me t’think I’d be able to find him,” he rubbed away the tears spilling out of his eyes.  
Ford stared at him, heart sinking down to his toes. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t even thinking after I found Stan, I-”  
Fiddleford shrugged. “Ain’t nothin’ you could’ve done,” he said quietly. “And, and anyway,” his voice shook and he straightened up, trying to smile. “Th-the best thing’s to try an’ get you and- and, the cloven, outta Throg.”  
Ford set a hand on his friend’s shoulder, at a loss for words. He didn’t deserve a friend as selfless as Fiddleford. But even more than that, Fiddleford didn’t deserve to have suffered as much as he had and be forced to leave Throg emptyhanded. Ford wracked his mind for a solution, but…

But with Stan in the state he was in it wasn’t safe for them to stay here any longer than they had to. They needed to get out. And Fiddleford was right. It would be impossible for them to find one small boy in this warren. And there was always the possibility that the boy had been changed as Stan had and wouldn’t recognize his father.

But that still didn’t make it fair or right.

He was trying to think of something else to say when Stan’s voice startled him out of his thoughts.

“Ford, which way,” he called.  
Ford looked up at the two branches of tunnel before them and frowned. “Well…”  
“It’s the one on the left,” said Fiddleford suddenly. “I remember goin’ through it just before we met the first group of Fangs. We’re almost out.”  
“Good,” Stan grunted.

****

Tate stumbled through the passageways of Throg, listening desperately for his papa’s music. He hadn’t heard it for a while and was starting to worry. What if something had happened to his papa? What if he got lost down here forever, wandering in the dark and hiding from Fangs?

Tate shivered and abruptly sat down in the shadows, his back to the wall. He was so tired. Maybe this had been a mistake. Maybe it hadn’t been his papa playing the songs. And anyway, they had stopped now. The Fangs would find him eventually and drag him back to the Stone Keeper’s box and he would change.

He sniffled and rubbed his eyes. He just wanted his papa.

He wasn’t sure how long he sat there in the dark, his hope fighting a losing battle against despair. He had just about made up his mind to try and get back to the cavern room when he heard it.

Music, bright and defiant, pierced through the darkness like sunlight. And it was close. It was very close. Tate scrambled to his feet, hope filling him up again and giving him a burst of strength. He ran as fast as he could towards the sound, his exhaustion banished for the moment.

“I’m coming, papa!” he called.

****

They encountered another group of Fangs before they had gone very far down the passage. There were more of them than there had been in group that cloven-Stan had killed, and they seemed better organized. Fiddleford got the idea that they had been sent to stop their escape.

Cloven-Stan rushed forward with another roar, barreling into the Fangs like a battering ram. But they were more prepared this time and there were more of them. Ford ran forward too, drawing his sword to fight with the creature he thought was his brother.

Fiddleford took a deep breath and lifted his whistleharp. Even if he didn’t have anything left to live for Ford did, and Fiddleford wasn’t going to be the reason two little children in a farmhouse at the edge of the Blackwood never saw their uncle again.

So he played. He played the most hopeful, defiant tune he could think of and hoped it would be enough.

Something interesting happened this time, he noticed. While some of the Fangs cringed away from the music and collapsed, others fought with renewed rage and fury. The music seemed to drive them mad, but it also made them careless and easy targets for Ford’s sword and the cloven’s claws.

Finally all the Fangs had been killed. Ford turned around, breathing hard and looking worn, but cloven-Stan looked excited, his eyes bright with bloodlust. It made Fiddleford shudder. He didn’t know why Ford was so convinced this was his brother when it was obvious he was just another one of Gnag’s terrible monsters.

Fiddleford sighed. It didn’t really matter. Nothing really mattered now.

He hung his whistleharp back on his pack and prepared himself to follow Ford and cloven-Stan through the tunnels again.

The sound of footsteps gave him pause. They were running towards them, very quickly, too light to be a Fang.

Before Fiddleford had time to think that through a voice shouted one simple word through the air.

“PAPA!”

****

Tate stumbled around a corner and skidded to a stop. There were two men and something else standing at the other end of the hall. But he only had eyes for one of them. The one with a whistleharp strapped to his side and light brown hair sticking out in all directions.

He felt a moment of panic when the men started to walk away from him, suddenly terrified that his father would disappear down here like smoke, leaving him alone. So he funneled all his terror into one word, shouted at the top of his lungs.

“PAPA!”

****

Fiddleford whipped around, heart pounding. And there, standing at the end of the passageway, panting and staring at him with wide eyes was Tate.

Fiddleford’s mouth dropped open and for a moment he could only stare at his ragged, scruffy little boy.

Then he was running. Tate was too, and when they met in the middle of the passageway Fiddleford knelt down and held his boy to him. He didn’t even try to stop the tears flowing down his face.

“Tate, oh, oh my boy,” he said, holding tight to his son.  
“Papa,” Tate whispered, clinging to him just as hard.  
“How did you, where, I never thought I’d find you down here,” said Fiddleford. “How’d you ever find _me_?”  
Tate laughed, a bright musical little sound that Fiddleford doubted the Deeps had ever heard before. “I followed your music!”  
“You followed my- oh you smart little boy,” Fiddleford laughed too and hugged him tighter. “You brilliant, brilliant little boy.”

He stayed there, quite content to hold onto his boy for all eternity, Fangs or no Fangs.

****

Tate snuggled up against his father, clinging to fistfuls of his shirt and burying his face in it. He didn’t care what happened next. He didn’t care if the Fangs came back or if an army of trolls came down, or if Gnag the Nameless himself came for him. He was safe in his papa’s arms, and nothing was going to take him out of them again.

He curled up and felt his papa pick him up and carry him. He didn’t know where they were going. He didn’t care. He had his papa and he was safe.

And he was quite content to hold onto his papa for all eternity.

****

Ford watched as the little boy ran to his father and Fiddleford finally, _finally_ held his son. He felt his throat tighten and his eyes water a bit as they held onto each other, each one an anchor for the other. He didn’t say anything, even when he knew they’d been in one place for far too long, even when he knew they really, really needed to get going before more Fangs showed up. Fiddleford deserved his reunion, and Ford wasn’t going to take it from him. He’d done enough damage to his friend already.

He had expected Stan to say something. He had expected to have to placate his brother, convince him to let Fiddleford and Tate have a few extra moments. But his brother was strangely silent. And when Ford looked up at his face…

Something different was there. A softness that hadn’t been there before, a kind of… sadness? In Stan’s expression. His monstrous features had gone slack, and Ford thought he looked almost human.

And for just one moment, Ford could have sworn that Stanley’s eyes turned blue.

****

Stan heard little footsteps and a shout. But this voice… it wasn’t like any he had heard before, and when he turned the owner of the voice wasn’t like any he had seen before.

He was small, very, very small, with dark hair that fell over two bright eyes. And he ran as fast as he could at the man with the instrument, who Ford had called Fiddleford.

Fiddleford ran to him too, and caught the little boy in his arms.

And all at once, a _memory_ slammed into Stan. A memory that wasn’t darkness or the song or the Stone Keeper.

_Two tiny children ran towards him (he couldn’t see their faces). They crashed into him and he caught them._

_And he laughed._

The memory faded as quickly as it had come, and Stan was left with nothing more than a feeling. He wasn’t sure if it was happy or sad or something else, but it was the strongest thing he’d felt while he’d been alive, stronger than the pain of his transformation or the anger of his imprisonment or the bloodlust he felt when he killed.

Stan stared at the man and the little one as they walked back towards him and Ford, he saw their smiles and their tears, and he decided.

He decided not to kill them. Not to kill any of them.

Maybe he would stay and find out what Ford wanted with him.

Maybe, if it made him feel like the memory had.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhh I finally got to post Fiddleford and Tate's reunion! <3 Now if they could just get out of Throg.
> 
> Hmm, I wonder who the little kids in Stan's memory could be? ;)
> 
> If you enjoyed please leave a comment! I treasure them.


	18. Back to the Blackwood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things have calmed down in this chapter...

The rest of their escape from Throg went smoothly. They passed the cages full of cloven and reached the staircases with no further encounters with Fangs.

Ford felt lighter than he had since they set out, despite being exhausted and having taken Fiddleford’s pack so he could carry his son more easily. They had Stanley and Fiddleford’s little son. They had succeeded at what should have been impossible. Not even the sad eyes of the cloven and the gloom of Throg’s caves could dampen his spirits.

“Papa, who’s that?”

Ford glanced over at Fiddleford and Tate and was surprised to find the little boy pointing at him.  
“That’s Stanford,” said Fiddleford. “He’s the Throne Warden of Anniera, and an old friend of mine.”  
“You talked about him,” said Tate quietly.  
“I did,” Fiddleford agreed.  
Ford felt even more surprised at that. He wasn’t sure why he had assumed that after he left Anniera everyone shunned him and stopped talking about him, but apparently that was yet another lie he’d told himself.  
“Who’s _that_ ,” Tate pointed to Stan, who was walking at the front of the group.

Even in the dim torchlight Ford could make out Fiddleford’s expression of frustration and disgust. “Stanford says that’s king Stan.”  
“ _That’s_ king Stan?”  
“That’s what Stanford says.”  
Tate looked back at Ford for a moment then turned back to his father. “They changed him.”  
“What?”  
“King Stan,” said Tate. “They changed him. Like the Fangs.”  
Ford’s eyes widened. “The Fangs?” he said quickly.  
Tate looked at him and nodded, but sank down a little further in his father’s arms.  
“How do you know that?” Ford asked.  
“Stanford,” said Fiddleford, warningly.  
“I watched,” said Tate, very quietly. Then he buried his head in his father’s shoulder. Fiddleford looked back at him with a glare that could melt steel, but said nothing.

Ford didn’t dare ask anything else but he was burning with curiosity. If the Fangs had once been humans too and Tate had seen them being transformed, and if the process was the same one Stan had talked about then maybe he could find out how to reverse it.

But he would have to figure out a way to talk to Tate without Fiddleford around, which, at the moment, was impossible because they were attached to each other. Maybe once they were out of the Deeps…

They continued in silence. Finally they reached the end of the stairs and the ground slowly became more uneven until they were scrambling along, tripping over cracks in the ground and stumbling around boulders. Except Stan, who navigated the obstacles with ease.

And then…

“What is that?” said Stan, stopping short.

Ford walked around him and stared. There before them was the great cave mouth they’d entered Throg through. Weak light illuminated the exit and Ford’s heart soared. He threw down their torch and stamped it out, grinning. They had made it. They had escaped the Deeps.

“That’s freedom, Stan,” said Ford, stepping forward into the pale light.  
Tate gasped in delight. “Sunshine!”  
“Sunshine?” Stan tilted his head, frowning.   
“Yeah!” Tate looked up at him grinning. “Don’t you remember what sunshine is?”  
Stan’s frown deepened. “No.”  
“Well let’s stop talkin’ and go see then,” said Fiddleford, hurrying towards the entrance. Ford knew it was just to get Tate to stop talking to Stan, but nevertheless he agreed.

“Come on Stan,” he said. He started to follow Fiddleford but stopped when he didn’t hear Stan following. He turned and saw his brother staring uncertainly at the light. Ford frowned. Stanley looked… scared. It was a strange expression on such a terrifying creature. Stan looked like he wanted to turn and flee back into the tunnels of Throg, back to the darkness.

And Ford couldn’t let him. Not in any way.

“Stan,” said Ford, quietly, walking back to his brother. “It’s alright. It’s just sunlight, it won’t hurt you.”  
“You don’t know that,” Stan rumbled quietly.  
“It _won’t_ ,” said Ford emphatically. “I mean, it may hurt your eyes for a little while, but that’s only because you’ve been in the dark for a long time and it’s not permanent and it shouldn’t be too bad because we’re in a forest and it’ll probably be the same for Tate so it’s not as if it’s just because you’re a cloven, so you see there’s really nothing to worry about-”  
“Hmph,” Stan walked past him, giving Ford a shove. “Look, if it’ll get you to shut up then I’ll do it.”

Ford paused, then smiled a little. It wasn’t exactly the reaction he was going for, but it would do.   
At the same time, however, he felt a little sad. Stan had always faithfully listened to Ford’s babbling when they were young, even when he’d had no idea what Ford was talking about.

“Ford!” Fiddleford called. He was standing at the bottom of the slope that led into the Blackwood. Tate was hanging onto his back now so his arms were free. “How’d we get down this thing?”

It took much more effort getting up the slope than it had going down, but with a great deal of slipping, sliding and grumbling they reached the top. They paused among the stinking pools of sludge and bones to catch their breath (except for Stan, who seemed tireless) but none of them wanted to linger. Soon they were hurrying into the Blackwood once more, dead leaves squelching under their already muddy boots.

Fiddleford had gone back to carrying Tate in his arms and the little boy was looking this way and that wildly, blinking furiously, eyes wide with wonder.

“It’s so bright!” he said. “And there’s trees!”  
“It’s too bright,” Stan grumbled, squinting. “What’s the little human’s name anyway?”  
Ford snorted. Even Fiddleford couldn’t hide a smile at that.  
“He’s a child, Stan,” said Ford, trying to hide his amusement.   
“I knew that,” said Stan quickly.  
“My name’s Tate!” the little boy said cheerfully. “You forgot.”  
Stan frowned. “Forgot what?”  
“My name,” said Tate. “You knew it before you changed.”  
“I doubt that,” said Stan.  
“You knew all the children’s names,” Tate insisted.

Stan frowned at that, and Fiddleford walked a little faster, putting a gap between Stan and his son. Ford sighed. This wasn’t going to be easy.

****

“Tate,” said Fiddleford quietly when they were ahead of Stan and Ford. “Don’t talk to Stan, alright?”  
“Why not?” Tate asked, tilting his head.  
“Because he’s not himself,” said Fiddleford. “He’s not safe and I don’t want him to hurt you.”  
“Do you think he’d hurt me?” Tate asked, eyes wide and a little scared.  
Fiddleford felt a pang in his chest and hugged him tighter. “I don’t know. But I don’t wanna find out the hard way, so try an’ stay away from him and don’t talk to him, okay?”  
“Okay papa,” Tate said. Then he sighed and laid his head down on Fiddleford’s shoulder again, shutting his eyes. “I’m tired.”

Fiddleford ran his hand over his son’s hair and shut his eyes for a moment. Tate was far too little to have seen everything he had, to be worrying about monsters and whether they’d hurt him or not. Monsters should be things that only showed up in scarytales when one was safe in bed at home, not walking ten paces behind them in real life. That was too much for even him as an adult to handle, let alone a six-year-old boy.

Fiddleford sighed. “Me too, Tate. Me too.”

****

Stan was disappointed when Fiddleford took the small human ( _child_ ) away. So far, Tate was the most interesting person he’d talked to.

He turned back to the world around him. Names for the things he was seeing were slowly coming back to him. Those tall things around them were called trees, which meant they were in a forest. The things crunching under his feet were leaves and they were usually on the trees but not now which meant it must be close to winter. The sunlight was too bright and it hurt his eyes and he wished it would go away.

There were also a plethora of new smells and sounds all around him. Creatures were moving everywhere through the forest. Some of them smelled a little like him, others were very different. He started to remember their names too. There were toothy cows and horned hounds and cave blats and bumpy digtoads and, and…

And the smell that was like him, but not him. There were dozens of those around them. Some were following them, others just watching as they went by. Maybe they were from Throg, like he was.

The further they got from the entrance to Throg the more he remembered and the clearer his mind felt. His desire to hunt and kill diminished, and in its place came curiosity.

“Do you live here?” he asked Ford.  
“Oh, no, I live in the Hollows,” said Ford. He sounded surprised.  
“Is that where we’re goin’?” Stan asked, watching him.  
“Er, no, I, um, haven’t really given much thought to where we’re going now,” said Ford. “To be honest, I didn’t actually think this rescue mission would succeed. But we can’t go to the Hollows because, well,” he looked down. “We just can’t. It’ll take us a few days to get out of the Blackwood, we’ll figure out a plan on our way.”  
Stan nodded. “Fine.” Then he heard a new sound to distract him and scanned the trees for it, ears twitching.

****

Ford looked at his brother, really _looked_ at him, for the first time since finding him in Throg.

Stan was a truly strange mix of animals. He had a nose and horns like a goat’s, but tusk-like fangs similar to a boar’s. His ears seemed similar to those of a goat’s as well, and Stan appeared to be able to move them up and down at will depending on his mood. He was covered in shaggy hair (or fur?) that was matted and clumped. His hands and feet were great clawed paws like those of a bear. A long, serpentine tail like the lizard Fangs had swished slowly through the air behind him. He was easily a foot taller than Ford. And to top it all off, Stanley had a pair of batlike wings folded against his back.

His bright yellow eyes were unnerving, and also strangely familiar. It took Ford a while to realize it was because they were the same yellow eyes the Fangs had.

But his brother was in there. He had to believe that. He had to believe that he could fix this. That his mistakes were not permanent and that Stanley would not always be like this.

Ford took a deep breath and focused on Tate, now asleep in Fiddleford’s arms. He needed answers and he was going to get them. He just had to be patient.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... but we're not out of the woods yet!
> 
> Also, updates are likely going to be slower on this fic for a while since at the moment I'm focusing on re-writing my third original book. That being said, comments and kudos do tend to give me a little boost of inspiration (and sometimes remind me that a story exists).
> 
> I hope you're enjoying the story!


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